SALTED   WITH    FIRE 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 


a  gjtcrp  of  a  i^mtster 


BY 


GEORGE    MACDONALD 


NEW    YORK 

DODD,   MEAD   AND    COMPANY 

1897 


Copyright,  1896-18^ 
By  Dodd,  Mead  and  Company 


IN  MEMORIAM 


H^-v^  4.L. ,  K.^'^:), 


©Intbersttg  IPress 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


Salted  With   Fire 


CHAPTER   I 

"Whaur  are  ye  aff  till  this  bonny  mornin', 
Maggie,  my  dow?"  said  the  soutar,  looking  up 
from  his  work,  and  addressing  his  daughter  as 
she  stood  in  the  doorway  with  her  shoes  in 
her  hand. 

"  Jist  ower  to  Stanecross,  wi'  yer  leave,  father, 
to  speir  the  mistress  for  a  feow  goupins  o'  chaff: 
yer  bed  aneth  ye  's  grown  unco  hungry-like." 
"  Hoot,  the  bed  's  weel  eneuch,  lassie  !  " 
"  Na,  it 's  onything  but  weel  eneuch.  It 's  my 
pairt  to  luik  efter  my  ain  father,  and  see  there 
be  nae  knots  either  in  his  bed  or  his  parritch." 

"  Ye  're  jist  yer  mither  ower  again,  my  lass ! 
Weel,  I  winna  miss  ye  that  sair,  for  the  minister 
'11  be  in  this  mornin'." 

"  Hoo  ken  ye  that,  father?  " 
"  We  didna  gree  vera  weel  last  nicht." 
**  I  canna  bide  the  minister  —  argle-barglin' 
body !  " 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  Toots,  bairn  !  I  dinna  like  to  hear  ye  speyk 
sae  scornfu  like,  o'  the  gude  man  that  has  the  care 
o'  oor  souls  !  " 

'*  It  wad  be  mair  to  the  purpose  ye  had  the 
care  o'  his  !  " 

"  Sae  I  hae ;  hasna  ilkabody  the  care  o'  ilk 
ither's?" 

"  Ay ;  but  he  preshumes  upo'  't  —  and  ye 
dinna;  there's  the  differ!" 

"  Weel,  but  ye  see,  lassie,  the  man  has  nae 
insicht  —  nana  to  speak  o',  that  is;  and  it's 
pleased  God  to  mak  him  a  wee  stoopid,  and 
some  thrawn  (twisted).  He  has  nae  notion  even 
o'  the  wark  I  put  intil  thae  wee  bit  sheenie  o* 
his  —  that  I  'm  this  moment  labourin'  owcrl" 

"It 's  sair  wastit  upon  him  'at  canna  see  the 
thoucht  intil 't !  " 

"  Is  God's  wark  wastit  upo'  you  and  me  excep' 
whan  we  see  intil 't  and  un'erstan'  't,  Maggie?  " 

The  girl  was  silent.     Her  father  resumed. 

"There  's  three  concernt  i'  the  matter  o'  the 
wark  I  may  be  at:  first,  my  ain  duty  to  the 
wark  —  that's  me;  syne  him  I'm  working  for 
—  that's  the  minister;  and  syne  him  'at  sets 
me  to  the  wark,  and  him  i'  the  need  o'  't  —  ye 
ken  wha  that  is :  whilk  o'  the  three  wad  ye  hae 
me  lea'  oot  o'  the  consideration.-*" 

For  another  moment  the  girl  continued  silent; 
then  she  said,  — 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

"Ye  maun  be  i'  the  richt,  father.  I  be- 
lieve 't,  though  I  canna  jist  see  't.  A  body 
canna  like  a'body,  and  the  minister's  jist  the 
ae  man  I  canna  bide." 

"Ay  could  ye,  gi'en  ye  lo'ed  the  anc  as  he 
ocht  to  be  lo'ed,  and  as  ye  maun  learn  to  lo'e 
him." 

"  Weel,  I  'm  no  come  to  that  wi'  the  minister 
yet!" 

"  It 's  a  trowth  —  but  a  sair  pity,  my  dautie. " 

"  He  provokes  me  the  w'y  that  he  speaks  to 
you,  father —  him  'at 's  no  fit  to  tie  the  thong  o' 
your  shee! " 

"The  Maister  would  lat  him  tie  his,  and  say 
thank  ye!  " 

"  It  aye  seems  to  me  he  has  sic  a  scrimpit 
way  o'  believin'  !  It 's  no  like  believin'  at  a' ! 
He  winna  trust  him  for  naething  that  he  hasna 
his  ain  word,  or  some  ither  body's  for!  Ca'  ye 
that  lippenin'  til  him.-*" 

It  was  now  the  father's  turn  to  be  silent  for  a 
moment.     Then  he  said,  — 

"  Lea'  the  judgin'  o'  him  to  his  ain  maister, 
lassie.  I  ha'e  seen  him  whiles  sair  concernt 
for  ither  fowk. " 

"'At  they  wouldna  baud  wi'  him,  and  war 
condemn't  in  consequence  —  wasna  that  it.-*  " 

"  I  canna  answer  ye  that,  bairn." 

"Weel,    I    ken  he  doesna  like  you  —  no  ae 

3 


SALTED  WITH   FIR£ 

wee    bit.      He  's   aye   girdin'    at   ye    to    ither 
fowk." 

"Maybe.  The  mair's  the  need  I  should  lo'e 
him." 

"  But  noo  can  ye,  father.^  " 

"There's  naething,  o'  late,  I  ha'e  to  be  sae 
gratefu'  for  to  him  as  that  I  can.  But  I  con- 
fess I  had  to  try  sair  at  first !  " 

"The  mair  I  was  to  try,  the  mair  I  jist 
couldna. " 

"But  ye  could  try;  and  He  could  help  ye." 

"  I  dinna  ken  ;  I  only  ken  that  sae  ye  say,  and 
I  maun  believe  ye.  Nane  the  mair  can  I  see 
hoo  it 's  ever  to  be  brought  aboot. " 

"  No  more  can  I,  though  I  ken  it  can  be.  But 
just  think,  my  ain  Maggie,  hoo  would  onybody 
ken  that  ever  ane  o'  's  was  his  disciple,  gien  we 
war  aye  argle-barglin'  aboot  the  holiest  things 
—  at  least  what  the  minister  coonts  the  holiest, 
though  may  be  I  ken  better?  It 's  whan  twa 
o'  's  strive  that  what 's  ca'd  a  schism  begins, 
and  I  jist  winna,  please  God  —  and  it  does 
please  him.  He  never  said.  Ye  maun  a'  think 
the  same  gait,  but  he  did  say,  Ye  maun  a'  lo'e 
ane  anither,  and  no  strive  !  " 

"  Ye  dinna  aye  gang  to  his  kirk,  father!  " 

"Na,  for  I'm  jist  feared  sometimes   lest   I 
should  stop  lo'ein'  him.     It  matters  little  aboot 
gaein'  to  the  kirk  ilka  Sunday,  but  it  matters  a 
4 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

heap  aboot  aye  lo'ein'  anc  anither;  and  whiles 
he  says  things  aboot  the  mind  o'  God,  sic  that 
it  's  a'  I  can  dee  to  sit  still. " 

"Weel,  father,  I  dinna  believe  that  I  can 
lo'e  him  ony  the  day,  sae,  wi'  yer  leave,  I 's  be 
awa  to  Stanecross  afore  he  comes. " 

"  Gang  yer  w'ys,  lassie,  and  the  Lord  gang 
wi'  ye,  as  ance  he  did  wi'  them  that  gaed  to 
Emmaus. " 

With  her  shoes  in  her  hand,  the  girl  was 
leaving  the  house  when  her  father  called  after 
her,  — 

"  Hoo  's  folk  to  ken  that  I  provide  for  my  ain 
whan  my  bairn  gangs  unshod .''  Tak  aff  yer 
shune  gin  ye  like  when  ye  're  oot  o'  the 
toon." 

"Are  ye  sure  there  's  nae  hypocrisy  aboot  sic 
afauseshow,  father.-*"  asked  Maggie,  laughing. 
"I  maun  hide  them  better! " 

As  she  spoke,  she  put  them  in  the  empty  bag 
she  carried  for  the  chaff. 

"There  's  a  hidin'  o'  what  I  hae  —  no  a  pre- 
tendin'  to  hae  what  I  haena!  I 's  be  hame  in 
guid  time  for  yer  tay,  father.  I  can  gang  a 
heap  better  without  them,"  she  added,  as  she 
threw  the  bag  over  her  shoulder.  "I'll  put 
them  on  whan  I  come  to  the  heather,"  she 
concluded. 

"Ay,  ay;  gang  yer  wa's,  and  lea'  me  to  the 
5 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

wark  ye   haena  the    grace    to    adverteeze  by 
wearin    0    t. 

Maggie  looked  in  at  the  window  as  she  passed 
it  on  her  way,  and  got  a  last  sight  of  her  father. 
The  sun  was  shining  into  the  little  bare  room, 
and  her  shadow  fell  upon  him  as  she  passed 
him;  but  his  form  lingered  clear  in  the  close 
chamber  of  her  mind  after  she  had  left  him  far 
behind  her.  There  it  was  not  her  shadow,  but 
the  shadow  rather  of  a  great  peace  that  rested 
concentred  upon  him  as  he  bowed  over  his  last, 
his  mind  fixed  indeed  upon  his  work,  but  far 
more  occupied  with  the  affairs  of  quite  another 
region.  Mind  and  soul  were  each  so  absorbed 
in  its  accustomed  labour  that  never  did  either 
interfere  with  that  of  the  other.  His  shoemak- 
ing  lost  nothing  when  he  was  deepest  sunk  in 
some  one  or  other  of  the  words  of  his  Lord, 
which  he  sought  eagerly  to  understand  —  nay, 
I  imagine  it  gained  thereby.  In  his  leisure 
hours,  not  a  great,  he  was  yet  an  intense 
reader;  but  it  was  nothing  in  any  book  that  now 
occupied  him ;  it  was  the  live  good  news,  the 
man  Jesus  Christ  himself.  In  thought,  in  love, 
in  imagination,  that  man  dwelt  in  him,  was  alive 
in  him,  and  made  him  alive.  This  moment  he 
was  with  him,  had  come  to  visit  him  —  yet  was 
never  far  from  him  —  present  ever  with  an  indi- 
viduality that  never  quenched  but  was  always 
6 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

developing  his  own.  For  the  soutar  absolutely 
believed  in  the  Lord  of  Life,  was  always  trying 
to  do  the  things  he  said,  and  to  keep  his  words 
abiding  in  him.  Therefore  was  he  what  the 
parson  called  a  mystic,  and  was  the  most  prac- 
tical man  in  the  neighbourhood ;  therefore  did 
he  make  the  best  shoes,  because  the  Word  of 
the  Lord  abode  in  him. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  minister  came  into 
the  kitchen.  The  soutar  always  worked  there 
that  he  might  be  near  his  daughter,  whose  pres- 
ence never  interrupted  either  his  work  or  his 
thought,  or  even  his  prayers,  which  at  times 
seemed  involuntary  as  a  vital  automatic  impulse. 

"It's  a  grand  day,"  said  the  minister.  "It 
aye  seems  to  me  that  just  on  such  a  day  will 
the  Lord  come,  nobody  expecting  him,  and  the 
folk  all  following  their  various  callings,  just  as 
when  the  flood  came  and  astonished  them." 

The  man  was  but  reflecting,  without  knowing 
it,  what  the  soutar  had  been  saying  the  last  time 
they  had  encountered ;  neither  did  he  think,  at 
the  moment,  that  the  Lord  himself  had  said  it 
first. 

"  And  I  was  thinkin',  this  verra  minute,"  re- 
turned the  soutar,  "  sic  a  bonny  day  as  it  was 
for  the  Lord  to  gang  aboot  amang  his  ain  fowk. 
I  was  thinkin*  maybe  he  was  come  upon  Maggie, 
and  was  walkin'  wi'  her  up  the  hill  to  Stanecross, 
7 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

—  nearer  till  her,  maybe,  nor  she  could  hear  or 
see  or  think." 

"  Ye  're  a  deal  taen  up  wi'  vain  imaiginin's, 
MacLear,"  returned  the  minister,  tartly.  "  What 
scriptur  hae  ye  for  sic  a  wanderin'  invention,  o' 
no  practical  value?" 

"  Deed,  sir,  what  scriptur  hae  I  for  takin'  my 
brakfast  this  or  ony  mornin'?  Yet  I  never  luik 
for  a  judgment  to  fa'  upon  me  for  that !  I  'm 
thinkin'  we  do  mair  things  in  faith  than  we  ken 

—  but  no  eneuch  !  no  eneuch  !  I  was  thankfu' 
for 't  though,  I  min'  that,  and  maybe  that  '11  stan* 
for  faith.  But  gien  I  gang  on  this  gait,  we  '11  be 
beginnin'  as  we  left  aff  last  nicht,  and  maybe  fa' 
to  strife !  And  we  hae  to  lo'e  ane  anither,  not 
accordin'  to  what  the  ane  thinks,  or  what  the 
ither  thinks,  but  accordin'  as  each  kens  the 
Maister  lo'es  the  ither,  for  he  lo'es  the  twa  o'  us 
thegither." 

"  But  hoo  ken  ye  that  he 's  pleased  wi'  ye?  " 
"  I  said  naething  aboot  that :   I  said  he  lo'es 

you  and  me  !  " 

"  For  that,  he  maun  be  pleast  wi'  ye !  " 

"  I  dinna  think  nane  aboot  that ;   I  jist  tak'  my 

life  i'  my  han',  and  awa'  wi'  't  till  him  ;  and  he  's 

never  turned  his  face  frae  me  yet.    Eh,  sir !  think 

what  it  would  be  gien  he  did  !  " 

"  But  we  maunna  think  o'  him  ither  than  he 

would  hae  us  think." 

8 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  That 's  hoo  I  'm  aye  hingin'  aroun'  his  door, 
and  aye  luikin'  aboot  for  him." 

"  Weel,  I  kenna  what  to  mak'  o'  ye  !  I  maun 
jist  lea'  ye  to  him  !  " 

"Ye  couldna  du  a  kinder  thing!  I  desire 
naething  better  frae  man  or  minister  than  be 
left  to  him." 

"  Weel,  weel,  see  till  yersel'." 

"  I  '11  see  to  him,  and  try  to  lo'e  my  neighbour 
—  that's  you,  Mr.  Pethrie.  I'll  hae  yer  shune 
ready  by  Setterday,  sir.  I  trust  they  '11  be 
worthy  o'  the  feet  that  God  made,  and  that  hae 
to  be  shod  by  me.  I  trust  and  believe  they  '11 
nowise  distress  ye,  or  interfere  wi'  yer  preachin'. 
I  '11  fess  them  hame  mysel',  gien  the  Lord  wull, 
and  that  without  fail !  " 

"  Na,  na ;  dinna  dee  that ;  let  Maggie  come 
wi'  them.  Ye  would  only  be  puttin'  me  oot  o' 
humour  for  the  Lord's  wark  wi'  yer  havers !  " 

"Weel,  I'll  sen'  Maggie — only  ye  would 
obleege  me  by  no  seein'  her,  for  ye  micht  put 
her  oot  o'  humour,  sir,  and  she  michtna  gie  yer 
sermon  fair  play  the  morn  !  " 

The  minister  closed  the  door  with  some 
sharpness. 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER   II 

In  the  meantime,  Maggie  was  walking  shoeless 
and  bonnetless  up  the  hill  to  the  farm  she  sought. 
It  was  a  hot  morning  in  June,  tempered  by  a 
wind  from  the  northwest.  The  land  was  green 
with  the  slow-rising  tide  of  the  young  corn, 
among  which  the  cool  wind  made  little  waves, 
showing  the  brown  earth  between  them  on  the 
somewhat  arid  face  of  the  hill.  A  few  fleecy 
clouds  shared  the  high  blue  realm  with  the  keen 
sun.  As  she  rose  to  the  top  of  the  road,  the 
gable  of  the  house  came  suddenly  into  her  sight, 
and  near  it  a  sleepy  old  grey  horse,  treading  his 
ceaseless  round  at  the  end  of  a  long  lever,  too 
listless  to  feel  the  weariness  of  a  labour  that  to 
him  must  have  seemed  unprogressive,  and  to  any- 
thing young  heart-breaking.  Nor  did  it  seem 
to  give  him  any  consolation  to  listen  to  the  com- 
motion he  was  causing  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wall,  where  a  threshing-machine  of  an  antiquated 
sort  was  in  full  response  with  multiform  motion 
to  the  monotony  of  his  round-and-round.  Near 
by  a  peacock,  as  conscious  of  his  glorious  plu- 
mage as  indifferent  to  the  ugliness  of  his  feet,  kept 

lO 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

time  with  his  undulating  neck  to  the  motion  of 
those  same  feet,  as  he  strode  with  stagey  gait 
across  the  cornyard,  now  and  then  stooping  to 
pick  up  spitefully  astray  grain,  and  occasionally 
erecting  his  superb  neck  to  give  utterance  to  a 
hideous  cry  of  satisfaction  at  his  own  beauty,  as 
unlike  it  as  ever  discord  to  harmony.  His  glory, 
his  legs,  and  his  voice  perplexed  Maggie  with  an 
unanalysed  sense  of  contradiction  and  unfitness. 

Radiant  with  age  and  light,  the  old  horse 
stood  still  just  as  the  sun  touched  the  meridian; 
the  hour  of  repose  and  food  was  come,  and  he 
knew  it ;  at  the  same  moment  the  girl,  passing 
one  of  the  green-painted  doors  of  the  farm- 
house, stopped  at  the  other,  the  kitchen  one. 
It  stood  open,  and  in  answer  to  her  modest 
knock,  a  ruddy  maid  stood  before  her,  with 
question  in  her  eyes  and  a  smile  on  her  lips  at 
sight  of  the  shoemaker's  Maggie,  whom  she 
knew  well.  Maggie  asked  if  she  might  see 
the  mistress. 

"  Here 's  the  soutar's  Maggie  wantin'  ye, 
mem  !  "  called  the  maid,  and  Mistress  Blather- 
wick,  who  was  close  at  hand,  came,  to  whom 
Maggie  humbly  but  confidently  making  her 
request,  had  it  as  kindly  granted,  and  at  once 
proceeded  to  the  barn  to  fill  the  pock  she  had 
brought,  with  the  light  plumy  covering  of  the 
husk  of  the  oats,  the  mistress  of  Stanecross  help- 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

ing  her  the  while,  and  talking  away  to  her  as  she 
did  so,  for  both  the  soutar  and  his  daughter  were 
favourites  with  her  and  her  husband,  and  she  had 
not  seen  either  of  them  for  some  time. 

"  Ye  used  to  ken  oor  Jeames  i'  the  auld  lang 
syne,  Maggie !  "  she  went  on,  for  the  two  had 
played  together  as  children  at  the  same  school, 
although  growth  and  difference  of  station  had 
gradually  put  an  end  to  their  intimacy,  and  it 
now  became  the  mother  to  refer  to  him  with 
circumspection,  seeing  that,  in  her  eyes  at 
least,  James  was  far  on  the  way  to  become  a 
great  man,  being  now  a  divinity  student;  for  in 
the  Scotch  church,  although  it  sets  small  store 
by  the  claim  to  apostolic  descent,  every  minister, 
until  he  has  either  shown  himself  eccentric, 
or  incapable  of  interesting  a  congregation,  is 
regarded  with  quite  as  much  respect  as  in  Eng- 
land is  accorded  to  the  claimant  of  a  phantom- 
priesthood  ;  and  therefore,  prospectively,  was  to 
his  mother  a  man  of  no  little  note.  And  Maggie 
remembered  how,  when  a  boy,  he  had  liked  to 
talk  with  her  father,  who  listened  to  him  with  a 
curious  look  on  his  rugged  face,  while  he  set 
forth  the  commonplaces  of  a  lifeless  theology 
with  an  occasional  freshness  of  logical  presenta- 
tion that  at  least  interested  himself.  But  she 
remembered  also  that  she  had  never  heard  the 
soutar,  on  his  side,  make  the  slightest  attempt  to 

12 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

lay  open  to  the  boy  his  stores  of  what  one  or 
two  in  the  place,  but  one  or  two  only,  counted 
wisdom  and  knowledge. 

"  He  's  a  gey  clever  laddie,"  he  had  said  once 
to  Maggie,  "  and  gien  he  gets  his  een  open  i' 
the  coorse  o'  the  life  he  's  begun  to  tak  a  haud 
o',  he'll  doobtless  see  something;  but  he  disna 
ken  yet  that  there  's  onything  rael  to  be  seen 
ootside  or  inside  o'  him  !  "  When  he  heard  that 
he  was  going  to  study  divinity,  he  shook  his 
head,  and  was  silent. 

"  I  'm  jist  hame  frae  payin'  him  a  short  veesit," 
Mrs.  Blatherwick  went  on.  "  I  cam  hame  but 
twa  nichts  ago.  He  's  lodged  wi'  a  decent  widow 
in  Arthur  Street,  in  a  flat  up  a  lang  stane  stair 
that  gangs  roun  and  roun  till  ye  come  there,  and 
syne  gangs  past  the  door  and  up  again.  She 
luiks  efter  his  claes,  and  sees  to  the  washin'  o' 
them,  and  does  her  best  to  haud  him  tidy ;  but 
Jeamie  was  aye  that  partic'lar  aboot  his  appear- 
ance !  And  that 's  a  guid  thing,  specially  in  a 
minister,  wha  has  to  set  an  example !  I  was 
sair  pleased  wi'  the  auld  body." 

There  was  one  in  the  Edinburgh  lodging,  how- 
ever, who  did  not  appear,  so  long  as  Mrs.  Blath- 
erwick was  there,  at  least,  oftener  than  she  must, 
and  of  whom  the  mother  had  made  no  mention 
to  her  husband  upon  her  return,  any  more  than 
she  did  now  to  Maggie  MacLear;  indeed,  she 
13 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

had  taken  so  little  notice  of  her  that  she  could 
hardly  be  said  to  have  seen  her  at  all.  This  was 
a  girl  of  about  sixteen,  who  did  far  more  for  the 
comfort  of  her  aunt's  two  lodgers  than  she  who 
reaped  all  the  advantage.  If  Mrs.  Blatherwick 
had  let  her  eyes  rest  upon  her  but  for  a  moment, 
she  would  probably  have  looked  again,  and  per- 
haps discovered  that  she  was  both  a  good-look- 
ing and  graceful  little  creature,  with  blue  eyes 
and  hair  as  nearly  black  as  that  kind  of  hair, 
both  fine  and  plentiful,  ever  is.  She  might 
then  have  discovered  as  well  a  certain  look  of 
earnestness  and  service  that  might  have  been 
called  devotion,  and  would  at  first  have  attracted 
her  for  its  own  sake,  and  then  repelled  her  for 
James's  ;  she  would  assuredly  have  read  in  it 
what  she  would  have  counted  danger.  But  see- 
ing her  poorly  dressed,  and  looking  untidy, 
which  she  could  not  for  the  time  help  being,  the 
mother  took  her  for  an  ordinary  servant  of  all 
work,  and  gave  her  no  attention ;  neither  once 
for  a  moment  doubted  that  her  son  saw  her  just 
as  she  did.  For  him,  who  was  her  only  son,  her 
heart  was  full  of  ambition,  and  she  brooded  on 
the  honour  he  was  destined  to  bring  her  and  his 
father.  The  latter,  however,  caring  much  less 
for  his  good  looks,  had  neither  the  same  satis- 
faction in  him  nor  an  equal  expectation  from  him. 
Neither  of  his  parents,  indeed,  had  as  yet  reaped 
14 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

much  pleasure  from  his  existence,  however  much 
they  might  hope  in  the  time  to  come.  There 
were  two  things  against  such  satisfaction,  indeed 
—  that  James  had  never  been  open-hearted 
toward  them,  never  communicative  as  to  his 
feeHngs,  or  even  his  doings;  and,  what  was 
worse,  that  he  had  long  made  them  feel  in  him 
a  certain  unexpressed  claim  to  superiority  over 
them.  Nor  would  it  have  lessened  their  uneasi- 
ness at  this  to  have  noted  that  the  existence  of 
such  an  implicit  claim  was  more  or  less  evident 
in  relation  to  everyone  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact,  manifested  mainly  by  a  stiff,  incommu- 
nicative reluctance,  taking  the  form  now  of  an 
affected  absorption  in  his  books,  now  of  con- 
tempt for  any  sort  of  manual  labour,  to  the  sad- 
dling of  the  pony  he  was  about  to  ride,  and  now 
and  always  by  an  affectation  of  proper  English, 
which,  while  quite  successful  as  to  grammar  and 
accentuation,  did  not  escape  the  ludicrous  in  a 
certain  stiltedness  of  tone  and  inflection,  from 
which  intrusion  of  the  would-be  gentleman,  his 
father,  a  simple  old-fashioned  man,  shrank  with 
more  of  dislike  than  he  was  willing  to  be  con- 
scious of. 

Quite  content  that,  having  a  better  education 

than  himself,  his  son  should  both  be  and  show 

himself  superior,  he  could  not  help  feeling  that 

these  his   ways  of  asserting  himself  were   but 

15 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

signs  of  foolishness,  and  especially  as  conjoined 
with  his  wish  to  be  a  minister,  in  regard  to  which 
Peter  but  feebly  sympathised  with  the  general 
ambition  of  Scots  parents.  Full  of  simple  pa- 
ternal affection,  whose  utterance  was  quenched 
by  the  behaviour  of  his  son,  he  was  continuously 
aware  of  something  that  took  the  shape  of  an 
impassable  gulf  between  him  and  his  father  and 
mother.  Profoundly  religious,  and  readily  ap- 
preciative of  what  was  new  in  the  perception  of 
truth,  although  by  no  means  eager  after  novelt)', 
he  was,  above  all,  of  a  great  and  simple  right- 
eousness —  full,  that  is,  of  a  loving  sense  of  fair- 
play —  a  very  different  thing,  indeed,  from  what 
most  of  those  who  count  themselves  religious 
mean  when  they  talk  of  the  righteousness  of 
God !  Little,  however,  was  James  yet  able  to 
see  of  this  or  other  great  qualities  in  his  father. 
I  would  not  have  my  reader  think  that  he  was 
consciously  disrespectful  to  either  of  his  parents, 
or  even  knew  that  his  behaviour  was  unloving. 
He  honoured  their  character,  but  shrank  from 
the  simplicity  of  their  manners ;  he  thought  of 
them  with  no  lively  affection,  though  with  not  a 
little  kindly  feeling  and  much  confidence,  at  the 
same  time  regarding  himself  with  still  greater 
confidence.  He  had  never  been  an  idler,  or 
disobedient,  and  had  made  such  efforts  after 
theological  righteousness  as  had  served  to  bol- 
i6 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

ster  rather  than  buttress  his  conviction  that  he 
was  a  righteous  youth,  or  at  least  to  nourish  his 
ignorance  of  the  fact  that  he  was  far  from  being 
the  person  of  moral  strength  and  value  that  he 
imagined  himself.  The  person  he  saw  in  the 
mirror  of  his  self-consciousness  was  a  very  fine 
and  altogether  trustworthy  personage ;  the  real- 
ity so  twisted  in  its  reflection  was  but  a  decent 
lad,  as  lads  go,  with  high  but  untrue  notions  of 
personal  honour,  and  an  altogether  unwarranted 
conviction  that  such  as  he  admiringly  imagined 
himself,  such  he  actually  was;  he  had  never  dis- 
covered his  true  and  unworthy  self!  There 
were  many  things  in  his  life  and  ways  upon 
which  had  he  but  fixed  eyes  of  question  he 
would  at  once  have  perceived  that  they  were 
both  judged  and  condemned.  So  far,  neverthe- 
less, his  father  and  mother  might  have  good 
hope  of  his  future. 

It  is  folly  to  suppose  that  such  as  follow  most 
the  fashions  of  this  world  are  more  enslaved  by 
them  than  multitudes  who  follow  them  only  afar 
off.  These  reverence  the  judgments  of  society 
in  things  of  far  greater  importance  than  the 
colour  or  cut  of  a  gown ;  often  without  knowing 
it,  they  judge  life,  and  truth  itself,  by  the  falsest 
of  all  measures,  namely,  the  judgment  of  others 
falser  than  themselves;  they  do  not  ask  what 
is  true  or  right,  but  what  folk  think  and  say 
*  17 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

about  this  or  that.  James,  for  instance,  al- 
together missed  being  a  gentleman,  by  his  habit 
of  asking  himself  how,  in  such  or  such  circum- 
stances, a  gentleman  would  behave.  As  the 
man  of  honour  he  would  fain  know  himself,  he 
would  never  tell  a  lie  or  break  a  promise ;  but 
he  had  not  come  to  perceive  that  there  are 
other  things  as  binding  as  the  promise,  which 
alone  he  regarded  as  obligatory.  He  did  not 
mind  raising  expectations  which  he  had  not  the 
least  intention  of  fulfilling. 

Being  a  Scotch  lad,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at  that  he  should  turn  to  Theology  as  a  means 
of  livelihood  ;  neither  is  it  surprising  that  he 
should  have  done  so  without  any  conscious  love 
to  God,  seeing  it  is  not  in  Scotland  alone  that 
men  take  refuge  in  the  Church,  and  turn  the 
highest  profession  into  the  meanest,  laziest, 
poorest,  and  most  unworthy,  by  following  it 
without  any  genuine  call  to  the  same.  In  any 
profession,  the  man  must  be  a  poor  common 
creature  who  follows  it  without  some  real  inter- 
est in  it;  but  he  who,  without  a  spark  of  enthu- 
siasm, adopts  the  Church,  is  either  a  "  blind 
mouth,"  as  Milton  calls  him,  —  scornfullest  of 
epithets,  —  or  an  "  old  wife"  ambitious  of  telling 
her  fables  well ;  and  James's  ambition  was  of  an 
equally  contemptible  sort,  —  that,  namely,  of 
distinguishing  himself  in  the  pulpit.     This,  if  he 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

had  the  natural  gift  of  eloquence,  he  might  well 
do  by  its  misuse  to  his  own  glory  ;  or  if  he  had 
it  not,  he  might  acquire  a  spurious  facility  re- 
sembling it,  and  so  be  every  way  a  wind-bag. 

Mr.  Petrie,  whom  it  cost  the  soutar  so  much 
care  and  effort  to  love,  and  who,  although  intel- 
lectually small,  was  yet  a  good  man,  and  by  no 
means  a  coward  where  he  judged  people's  souls 
in  danger,  thought  to  save  the  world  by  preach- 
ing a  God  eminently  respectable  to  those  who 
could  believe  in  such  a  God,  but  to  those  who 
could  not,  very  far  from  lovely  because  far  from 
righteous  ;  for  his  life,  nevertheless,  he  showed 
himself  in  many  ways  a  believer  in  Him  who 
revealed  a  very  different  God  indeed  —  which 
did  not,  however,  prevent  him  from  looking 
upon  the  soutar,  who  believed  only  in  the  God 
he  saw  in  Jesus  Christ,  as  one  in  a  state  of 
rebellion  against  God. 

Young  Blatherwick  on  his  part  had  already 
begun  to  turn  his  back  upon  several  of  the 
special  tenets  of  Calvinism,  without,  however, 
being  either  a  better  or  a  worse  man  because  of 
this  change  in  his  opinions.  He  had  cast  aside, 
for  instance,  the  doctrine  of  an  everlasting  hell 
for  the  unbeliever,  but  in  doing  so  became  aware 
that  he  was  thus  leaving  fallow  a  great  field  for 
the  cultivation  of  eloquence,  and  not  having  yet 
discovered  any  other  equally  productive  of  the 
19 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

precious  crop,  without  which  so  little  was  to  be 
gained  for  the  end  he  desired,  —  namely,  the 
praise  of  men.  He  kept  on  in  the  meantime 
sowing  and  reaping  the  same  field.  Mr,  Petrie, 
on  the  other  hand,  held  to  the  doctrine  as  ab- 
solutely fundamental ;  while  the  soutar,  who 
had  discarded  it  from  almost  his  childhood, 
positively  refused  to  enter  into  any  argument 
on  the  matter  with  the  disputatious  little  man, 
who  was  unable  to  perceive  any  force  in  his 
argument  that,  to  tell  a  man  he  must  one  day 
give  in  and  repent,  would  have  greater  potency 
with  him  than  any  assurance  that  the  hour 
would  come  when  repentance  itself  would  be 
unavailing. 

As  yet,  therefore,  James  was  reading  Scotch 
metaphysics,  and  reconciling  himself  to  the  con- 
cealment of  his  freer  opinions,  for  upon  their 
concealment  depended  the  success  of  his  pro- 
bation, and  his  license.  The  close  of  his  studies 
in  divinity  was  now  at  hand. 


ao 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER   III 

Upon  a  certain  stormy  day  in  the  great  north- 
ern city,  preparing  for  what  he  regarded  as  his 
career,  James  sat  in  the  same  large  shabbily 
furnished  room  where  his  mother  had  once 
visited  him,  half-way  up  the  hideously  long  spiral 
stair  of  an  ancient  house,  whose  entrance  was 
in  a  narrow  close.  The  great  clock  of  a  church 
in  the  neighbouring  street  had  just  begun  to 
strike  five  of  a  wintry  afternoon,  dark  with  snow, 
falling  and  yet  to  fall  —  how  often  in  after  years 
was  he  not  to  hear  the  ghostly  call  of  that  clock, 
and  see  that  falling  snow  !  —  when  a  gentle  tap 
came  to  his  door,  and  the  girl  I  have  already 
mentioned  came  in  with  a  tray,  and  the  materi- 
als for  his  most  welcomed  meal  of  coffee  and 
bread  and  butter.  She  set  it  down  in  a  silence 
which  was  plainly  that  of  deepest  respect,  gave 
him  one  glance  of  devotion,  and  was  turning  to 
leave  the  room,  when  he  looked  up  from  the 
paper  he  was  writing,  and  said, — 

"  Don't   be   in   such  a  hurry,  Isy.     Have  n't 
you  time  to  pour  out  my  coffee  for  me? " 

21 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

Isy  was  still  a  small,  dark,  neat  little  thing, 
with  finely  formed  features,  and  a  look  of  child- 
like simplicity,  not  altogether  removed  from 
childishness.  She  answered  him  first  with  her 
very  blue  eyes  full  of  love  and  trust. 

"  Plenty  o*  time,  sir.  What  other  have  I  to 
do  than  see  that  you  're  at  your  ease?  " 

He  shoved  aside  his  work,  and  looking  up 
with  some  concentration  in  his  regard,  pushed 
his  chair  back  a  little  from  the  table,  and  re- 
joined, — 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  this  last  day  or 
two,  Isy?    You  're  not  altogether  like  yourself !  " 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  answered,  — 

"  It  can  be  naething,  I  suppose,  but  just  that 
I  *m  growing  older  and  beginning  to  think  aboot 
things." 

She  stood  near  him.  He  put  his  arm  round 
her  little  waist,  and  would  have  drawn  her  down 
upon  his  knees,  but  she  resisted. 

"  I  don't  see  what  difference  that  can  make 
all  at  once,  Isy !  We  've  known  each  other  so 
long  there  can  be  no  misunderstanding  of  any 
sort  between  us.  You  have  always  behaved 
like  the  good  and  modest  girl  you  are  ;  and 
I  'm  sure  you  have  been  most  attentive  to  me 
all  the  time  I  have  been  in  your  aunt's  house." 

He  spoke  in  the  superior  tone  of  approval. 

"  It  was  my  bare  duty,  and  ye  hae  aye  been 

22 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

kinder  to  me  than  I  could  hae  had  ony  richt  to 
expec'.  But  it's  nearhan'  ower  noo  !  "  she  con- 
cluded with  a  sigh  that  indicated  tears  some- 
where, and  yielding  to  the  increased  pressure  of 
his  arm. 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  he  returned, 
giving  her  a  warm  kiss,  plainly  neither  unwel- 
come nor  the  first. 

"  Dinna  ye  think  it  wad  be  better  to  drop  that 
kin'  o*  thing  noo,  sir?"  she  said,  and  would 
have  risen,  but  he  held  her  fast. 

"  Why  now,  more  than  any  time,  for  I  don't 
know  how  long?  Where  is  there  any  differ- 
ence? What  puts  the  notion  in  your  pretty 
little  head?  "  he  asked. 

"  It  maun  come  some  day,  and  the  langer  the 
harder  it  '11  be  !  " 

"  But  tell  me,  what  sets  you  thinking  about  it 
all  at  once?  " 

She  burst  into  tears.  He  tried  to  soothe  and 
comfort  her,  but  in  struggling  not  to  cry  she 
only  sobbed  the  worse.  At  last,  however,  she 
succeeded  in  faltering  out  an  explanation, 

"  Auntie  's  been  tellin'  me  that  I  maun  luik  to 
my  heart,  no  so  tyne't  to  ye  a'  thegither !  But 
it 's  awa  already,"  she  went  on,  with  a  fresh  out- 
burst; "and  it's  no  manner  o' use  cryin'  till't 
to  come  back  to  me !  I  micht  as  weel  cry  upo' 
the  win'  as  it  blaws  by  me.  I  canna  understan' 
23 


SALTED   WITH  FIRE 

't;  I  ken  weel  ye '11  soon  be  a  great  man,  and  a* 
the  toon  crushin'  to  hear  ye;  and  I  ken  just  as 
weel  that  I  '11  hae  to  sit  still  in  my  seat  and 
luik  up  to  ye  whaur  ye  stan',  —  no  daurin'  to  say 
a  word,  no  daurin'  even  to  think  a  thoucht  lest 
somebody  sittin'  aside  me  should  hear  't  ohn  me 
said  a  word.  For  what  would  it  be  but  clean 
impidence  to  think  'at  ance  I  was  sittin'  whaur 
I  'm  sitting  the  noo  —  and  that  i'  the  vera  kirk 
—  I  would  be  nearhan'  deein'  for  shame  !  " 

"  Did  n't  you  ever  think,  Isy,  that  maybe  I 
might  marry  ye  some  day?"  said  James  jok- 
ingly, confident  in  the  gulf  between  them. 

"  Na,  no  ance.  I  kenned  better  nor  that !  I 
never  even  wusst  it.  For  that  would  be  nae 
freen's  wuss ;  ye  would  never  get  on  gien  ye 
did.  I  'm  nane  fit  for  a  minister's  wife  —  nor 
worthy  o'  it.  I  micht  do  no  that  ill,  and  pass 
middlin'  weel  in  a  sma'  clachan  wi'  a  Avee  bit 
kirkie  —  but  amang  gran'  fowk,  in  a  muckle 
toon  —  for  that 's  whaur  ye  're  sure  to  be  —  eh 
me,  me !  A'  the  last  week  or  twa  I  haena  been 
able  to  help  seein'  ye  driftin'  awa  frae  me,  oot 
and  oot  to  the  great  sea,  whaur  never  a  thoucht 
o'  Isy  would  come  nigh  ye  again ;  and  what 
for  should  there?  Ye  cam'  na  into  the  vvarld 
to  think  aboot  me  or  the  likes  o'  me,  but  to  be 
a  great  preacher,  and  lea'  me  ahin  ye,  like  a 
sheaf  o'  corn  ye  had  jist  cuttit  and  left  unbun' !" 
24 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

Here  came  another  burst  of  bitter  weeping, 
followed  by  words  whose  very  articulation  was 
a  succession  of  sobs. 

"  Eh  me,  me !  I  doobt  I  hae  clean  disgraced 
mysel' !  " 

As  to  young  Blatherwick,  I  venture  to  assert 
that  nothing  vulgar  or  low,  still  less  of  evil 
intent,  was  passing  through  his  mind  during  this 
confession,  and  yet  what  but  evil  was  his  un- 
pitying,  selfish  exultation  in  the  fact  that  this 
simple-hearted  and  very  pretty  girl  loved  hirn 
unsought,  and  had  told  him  so  unasked  ?  A 
true-hearted  man  would  at  once  have  perceived 
and  shrunk  from  what  he  was  bringing  upon 
her,  but  James's  vanity  made  him  think  it  only 
very  natural,  and  more  than  excusable  in  her ; 
and  while  his  ambition  made  him  imagine  him- 
self so  much  her  superior  as  to  admit  no  least 
thought  of  marrying  her,  it  did  not  prevent 
him  from  yielding  to  the  delight  her  confession 
caused  him,  or  from  persuading  her  that  there 
was  no  harm  in  loving  one  to.  whom  she  must 
always  be  dear,  whatever  his  future  might  bring 
with  it,  Isy  left  the  room  not  a  little  consoled, 
and  with  a  new  hope  in  possession  of  her  in- 
nocent imagination;  James  remained  to  exult 
over  his  conquest,  and  indulge  a  more  definite 
pleasure  than  hitherto  in  the  person  and  devo- 
tion of  the   girl.     As  to  any  consciousness  of 

25 


SALTED  WITH  FIRE 

danger  to  either  of  them,  it  was  no  more  than 
the  uneasy  stir  on  the  shore  of  a  storm  far  out 
at  sea ;  had  the  least  thought  of  wrong  to  her 
invaded  his  mind,  he  would  have  turned  from 
it  with  abhorrence  ;  yet  was  he  endangering 
all  her  peace  of  mind  without  giving  it  one 
reasonable  thought.  He  was  acting  with  self- 
ishness too  ingrained  to  manifest  its  own  un- 
lovely shape  ;  while  yet  in  his  mind  lay  all  the 
time  a  half-conscious  care  to  avoid  making  a 
promise. 

As  to  her  fitness  for  a  minister's  wife,  he  had 
never  asked  himself  a  question  concerning  it ; 
but  she  might,  in  truth,  very  soon  have  grown 
far  fitter  for  the  position  than  he  was  now  for 
that  of  a  minister.  In  character  she  was  much 
beyond  him,  and  in  breeding  and  consciousness 
far  more  of  a  lady  than  he  of  a  gentleman,  — 
fine  gentleman  as  he  would  fain  know  himself. 
Her  manners  were  immeasurably  better  than 
his,  because  they  were  simple  and  aimed  at 
nothing.  Instinctively  she  avoided  whatever, 
had  she  done  it,  she  would  have  recognised 
as  uncomely.  She  did  not  know  that  simplicity 
was  the  purest  breeding,  yet  from  mere  truth 
of  nature  practised  it  unknowing.  If  her  words 
were  older-fashioned,  therefore  more  provincial 
than  his,  at  least  her  tone  was  less  so,  and 
her  utterance  prettier  than  if,  like  him,  she  had 
26 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

aped  an  Anglicised  mode  of  speech.  James 
would,  I  am  sure,  have  admired  her  more  if  she 
had  been  dressed  on  Sundays  in  something  more 
showy  than  a  simple  cotton  gown  ;  but  her 
aunt  was  poor,  and  she  poorer,  for  she  had  no 
fixed  wages  even ;  and  I  fear  that  her  poverty 
had  its  influence  in  the  freedoms  he  allowed 
himself  with  her. 

Her  aunt  was  a  weak  as  well  as  unsuspicious 
woman,  who  had  known  better  days,  and  pitied 
herself  because  they  were  past  and  gone.  She 
gave  herself  no  anxiety  upon  her  niece's  pru- 
dence, but  was  so  well  assured  of  it  that  even 
her  goodness  seemed  to  fight  against  her  safety. 
It  would  have  required  a  man,  not  merely  of 
greater  goodness  than  James,  but  of  greater 
insight  into  the  realities  of  life  as  well,  to  per- 
ceive the  worth  and  superiority  of  the  girl  who 
waited  upon  him  with  a  devotion  far  more  an- 
gelic than  servile ;  for  whatever  might  have 
seemed  to  savour  of  the  latter  had  love,  hope- 
less of  personal  advantage,  at  the  root  of  it. 

Thus  things  went  on  for  a  while,  with  a  con- 
tinuous strengthening  of  the  pleasant  yet  not 
altogether  easy  bonds  in  which  Isobel  walked, 
and  a  constant  increase  in  the  power  of  the  at- 
traction that  drew  the  student  to  the  self-yielding 
girl,  until  the  appearance  of  another  lodger  in 
the  house  was  the  means  of  opening  Blather- 
27 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

wick's  eyes  to  the  state  of  his  own  feelings, 
giving  occasion  to  the  birth  and  recognition  of 
a  not  unnatural  jealousy;  and  this  "  gave  him 
pause."  On  Isy's  side  there  was  not  the  least 
occasion  for  this  jealousy,  and  he  knew  it ;  but 
not  the  less  he  saw  that,  if  he  did  not  mean  to 
go  further,  here  he  must  stop,  —  the  immediate 
result  of  which  was  that  he  began  to  change  a 
little  in  his  behaviour  toward  her,  when  at  any 
time  she  came  into  his  room  in  ministration  to 
his  wants. 

Of  this  change  the  poor  girl  was  at  once 
aware,  but  attributed  it  to  a  temporary  absorp- 
tion in  his  studies.  Soon,  however,  she  could 
not  doubt  that  not  merely  was  his  voice  or  his 
countenance  changed  towards  her,  but  that  his 
heart  also  had  grown  cold  to  her,  and  that  he 
was  no  longer  "  friends  with  her."  For  there 
was  another  and  viler  element  than  mere  jealousy 
concerned  in  his  alteration ;  the  consciousness 
of  the  jealousy  had  opened  his  eyes  to  another, 
to  him  a  more  real  danger  into  which  he  was 
rapidly  drifting,  — that  of  irrecoverably  blasting 
the  very  dawn  of  his  prospects  by  an  imprudent 
marriage.  "  To  be  saddled  with  a  wife,"  as  he 
vulgarly  expressed  it  to  himself,  before  a  church 
was  attainable  to  him,  —  before  even  he  had  had 
the  poorest  opportunity  of  distinguishing  him- 
self in  that  wherein  he  hoped  to  excel,  —  was  a 
28 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

thing  not  for  a  moment  to  be  contemplated ; 
and  now,  when  Isobel  asked  him  in  sorrowful 
mood  some  indifferent  question,  the  uneasy 
knowledge  that  he  was  about  to  increase  her  sad- 
ness made  him  answer  her  roughly,  —  a  form  not 
unnatural  to  incipient  compunction.  White  as  a 
ghost  she  stood  silently  staring  at  him  a  mo- 
ment, then  sank  on  the  floor  senseless. 

Seized  with  an  overmastering  repentance  that 
brought  back  with  a  rush  all  his  tenderness, 
James  sprang  to  her,  lifted  her  in  his  arms,  laid 
her  on  the  sofa,  and  lavished  caresses  upon  her, 
until  she  recovered  sufficiently  to  know  that  she 
lay  in  the  false  paradise  of  his  arms,  while  he 
knelt  over  her  in  a  passion  of  regret,  the  first 
passion  he  had  ever  felt  or  manifested  toward 
her,  pouring  into  her  ear  words  of  incoherent 
dismay,  which,  taking  shape  as  she  revived,  soon 
became  promises  and  vows.  Thereupon,  worse 
consequence,  the  knowledge  that  he  had  com- 
mitted himself,  and  the  conviction  that  he  was 
bound  to  one  course  in  regard  to  her,  wherein 
he  seemed  to  himself  incapable  of  falsehood, 
freed  him  from  the  self-restraint  then  most  im- 
perative, and  his  trust  in  his  own  honour  became 
the  last  loop  of  the  snare  about  to  entangle  his 
and  her  very  life.  At  the  moment  when  a  gen- 
uine love  would  have  hastened  to  surround  her 
with  bulwarks  of  safety,  he  ceased  to  be  his 
29 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

sister's  keeper.     Cain  ceased  to  be  his  brother's 
when  he  slew  him. 

But  the  vengeance  on  his  unpremeditated 
treachery — for  treachery,  although  unpremedi- 
tated, it  certainly  was  none  the  less  —  came  close 
upon  its  heels.  The  moment  Isy  left  the  room 
weeping  and  pallid,  conscious  that  a  miserable 
shame  but  waited  the  entrance  of  importunate 
reflection,  he  threw  himself  down,  writhing  as  in 
the  claws  of  a  hundred  demons.  The  next  day 
but  one  he  was  to  preach  his  first  sermon  before 
his  class,  in  the  presence  of  his  professor  of 
divinity !  His  immediate  impulse  was  to  rush 
from  the  house,  and  home  to  his  mother  on  foot. 
Perhaps  it  would  have  been  well  for  him  had  he 
done  so  indeed,  confessed  all,  and  turned  his 
back  on  the  church  and  his  paltry  ambition  to- 
gether. But  he  had  never  been  open  with  his 
mother,  and  he  feared  his  father,  not  knowing 
the  tender  righteousness  of  that  father's  heart, 
or  the  springs  of  love  which  would  at  once  open 
to  meet  the  sorrowful  tale  of  his  wretched  son. 
Instead  of  fleeing  at  once  to  that  city  of  refuge, 
he  fell  to  pacing  the  room  in  hopeless  bewilder- 
ment; nor  was  it  long  before  he  was  searching 
every  corner  of  his  reviving  consciousness,  —  not 
indeed  as  yet  for  any  justification,  but  for  what 
palliation  of  his  "  fault "  might  there  be  found. 
It  was  the  first  necessity  of  this  self-lover  to 
30 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

think  well,  or  at  least  endurably,  of  himself; 
and  soon  a  multitude  of  sneaking  arguments, 
imps  of  Satan,  began  to  come  at  the  cry  of  his 
agony  of  self-dissatisfaction. 

But  in  that  agony  was  no  detestation  of  him- 
self, because  of  his  humiliation  of  the  trusting 
Isobel;  he  did  not  yet  loathe  his  abuse  of  her 
confidence,  his  foul  envelopment  of  her  in  the 
fire-damp  of  his  miserable  weakness,  —  the  hour 
of  a  true  and  good  repentance  was  not  yet 
come;  shame  only  in  the  failure  of  his  own 
fancied  strength  as  yet  possessed  him.  If  it 
should  ever  come  to  be  known,  what  contempt 
would  clothe  him  instead  of  the  garments  of 
praise  he  had  dreamed  of  all  these  years !  The 
pulpit,  the  goal  of  his  ambition,  the  field  of  his 
imagined  triumphs, — the  very  thought  of  it 
made  him  sick.  Still,  there  at  least  lay  yet  a 
chance  of  recovery ;  for  many  were  the  chances 
that  no  one  might  hear  a  word  of  what  had 
happened.  Sure  enough,  Isy  would  never  tell 
anything,  —  least  of  all,  her  aunt !  He  had 
promised  to  marry  poor  Isy,  and  that,  of  course, 
he  would,  neither  would  it  be  any  great  hard- 
ship ;  only  as  an  immediate  thing,  it  was  not  to 
be  thought  of.  There  could  be  at  the  moment 
no  necessity  for  such  an  extreme  measure.  He 
would  wait  and  see.  He  would  be  guided  by 
events.  As  to  the  sin  of  the  thing,  —  how 
31 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

many  had  fallen  like  him,  and  no  one  the 
wiser!  Never  would  he  so  offend  again;  and 
in  the  meantime  would  let  it  go,  and  try  to 
forget  it,  —  in  the  hope  that  providence  now, 
and  at  length  time,  would  bury  it  from  all  men's 
sight.  He  would  go  on  the  same  as  if  the  un- 
toward thing  had  not  so  cruelly  happened,  had 
cast  no  such  cloud  over  the  fair  future  that  lay 
before  him.  Nor  were  his  selfish  regrets  un- 
mingled  with  annoyance  that  Isy  should  have 
yielded  so  easily;  why  had  she  not  aided  him 
to  resist  the  weakness  that  had  wrought  his 
undoing?  She  was  much  to  blame;  and  for 
her  unworthiness  was  he  to  be  left  to  suffer? 
Within  half  an  hour  he  had  returned  to  the  ser- 
mon he  had  in  hand,  revising  it  for  the  twentieth 
time,  to  have  it  perfect  before  finally  commit- 
ting it  to  memory ;  for  the  orator  would  have  it 
seem  the  thing  it  was  not,  —  an  outcome  of  ex- 
temporaneous feeling, —  so  the  lie  of  his  life  be 
crowned  with  success.  During  what  remained 
of  the  two  days  following  he  spared  no  labour, 
and  at  the  last  delivered  it  with  considerable 
unction,  and  felt  he  had  achieved  his  end. 
Neither  of  those  days  did  Isy  make  her  ap- 
pearance in  his  room ;  her  aunt  excused  her 
apparent  neglect  with  the  information  that  she 
was  in  bed  with  a  bad  headache,  and  herself 
supplied  her  place. 

32 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

The  next  day  she  was  about  her  work  as 
usual,  but  never  once  looked  up.  He  imagined 
reproach  in  her  silence,  and  did  not  venture  to 
address  her.  But,  indeed,  he  had  no  wish  to 
speak  to  her,  for  what  was  there  to  be  said  ?  A 
cloud  was  between  them ;  a  great  gulf  seemed 
to  divide  them.  He  wondered  at  himself,  no 
longer  conscious  of  her  attraction,  or  of  his 
former  delight  in  her  proximity.  It  was  not 
that  his  resolve  to  marry  her  wavered ;  he  fully 
intended  to  keep  his  promise  to  her,  but  he 
found  he  must  wait  the  proper  time,  the  right 
opportunity  for  revealing  to  his  parents  the  fact 
of  his  engagement  to  her,  —  which  engagement 
he  never  for  a  long  time  dreamed  of  repudiat- 
ing. But  after  a  few  days,  during  which  there 
had  been  no  return  to  their  former  familiarity, 
it  was  with  a  fearful  kind  of  relief  that  he  learned 
she  was  gone  to  pay  a  visit  to  an  old  grand- 
mother in  the  country.  He  did  not  care  that 
she  had  gone  without  taking  leave  of  him,  only 
wondered  if  she  could  have  said  anything  to  in- 
criminate him.  The  session  came  to  an  end 
while  she  was  still  absent.  He  took  a  formal 
leave  of  her  aunt,  and  went  home  to  Stonecross. 

His  father  at  once  felt  a  wider  division  be- 
tween them  than  before,  and  his  mother  was 
now  compelled,  much  against  her  will,  to  ac- 
knowledge to  herself  its  existence.  At  the 
3  33 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

same  time  he  carried  himself  with  less  arro- 
gance, and  seemed  humbled  rather  than  uplifted 
by  his  success.  During  the  year  that  followed 
he  made  several  visits  to  Edinburgh,  and  before 
long  received  a  presentation  to  a  living  in  the 
gift  of  his  father's  landlord,  a  certain  duke  who 
had  always  been  friendly  to  the  well-to-do  and 
unassuming  tenant  of  one  of  his  largest  farms  in 
the  north.  Neither  upon  nor  since  these  visits 
had  he  inquired  about  or  heard  anything  of  Isy ; 
but  even  now,  when,  without  blame,  he  might 
have  taken  steps  toward  the  fulfilment  of  the 
promise  which  he  had  made  her,  and  which  he 
had  never  ceased  to  regard  as  binding,  he  could 
not  yet  persuade  himself  that  the  right  time  had 
come  for  revealing  it  to  his  parents,  for  he  knew 
it  would  be  a  great  blow  to  his  mother  to  learn 
that  he  had  so  handicapped  his  future,  and  he 
feared  the  silent  face  of  his  father  listening  to 
the  announcement  of  it. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  he  had  made 
no  attempt  to  establish  any  correspondence  with 
the  poor  girl,  was  by  this  time  not  unwilling  to 
forget  her,  and  hoped,  indeed,  that  she  had,  if 
not  forgotten,  at  least  dismissed  from  her  mind 
all  that  had  taken  place  between  them.  Now 
and  then  he  would  in  the  night  have  a  few  ten- 
der thoughts  about  her,  but  in  the  morning 
they  would  all  be  gone,  and  he  would  drown 
34 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

painful  reminiscence  in  the  care  with  which,  in 
duty  bound  it  seemed  to  him,  he  would  polish 
and  repolish  his  sentences,  aping  the  style  of 
Chalmers  or  Robert  Hall,  and  occasionally  in- 
serting some  quotation  whose  fine  sound  made 
him  covet  it;  for  apparent  richness  of  compo- 
sition was  his  principal  aim,  not  truth  of  mean- 
ing, or  lucidity  of  utterance. 

I  can  hardly  be  presumptuous  in  adding  that, 
although  thus  growing  in  a  certain  popularity, 
he  was  not  growing  in  favour  with  God,  for  who 
can  that  makes  the  favour  of  man  his  aim  ! 
And  as  he  continued  to  hear  nothing  about  Isy, 
the  hope  at  length,  bringing  with  it  a  keen  shoot 
of  pleasure,  awoke  in  him  that  he  was  never  to 
hear  of  her  any  more.  For  the  praise  of  men, 
and  the  love  of  that  praise,  had  now  restored 
him  to  his  own  good  graces,  and  he  thought  of 
himself  with  more  interest  and  approbation  than 
ever  before;  hence  his  forgetting  of  Isy  and 
his  promises.  His  continued  omission  of  in- 
quiry after  her,  notwithstanding  the  predicament 
in  which  he  might  possibly  have  placed  her,  was 
a  far  worse  sin,  because  deliberate,  than  his  pri- 
mary wrong  to  her,  and  it  was  that  which  now 
recoiled  upon  him  in  his  increase  of  hardness 
and  self-satisfaction. 

And  now,  in  love  with  himself,  and  so  shut 
out  from  the  salvation  of  love  to  another,  he  was 
35 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

specially  in  danger  of  falling  in  love  with  any 
woman's  admiration, — whence  now  occurred  a 
little  episode  in  his  history,  not  quite  so  insig- 
nificant as  it  may  appear. 

He  had  not  been  more  than  a  month  or  two 
in  his  parish,  when  he  was  attracted  by  a  certain 
young  woman  in  his  congregation,  of  some  in- 
born refinement  and  distinction  of  position,  to 
whom  he  speedily  became  anxious  to  recom- 
mend himself;  he  must  have  her  approval,  and, 
if  possible,  her  admiration!  So  in  preaching,  if 
the  word  used  for  the  lofty,  simple  utterance  of 
divine  messengers  may  be  misapplied  to  his 
paltry  memorisations,  his  main  thought  was  al- 
ways whether  she  was  justly  appreciating  the 
eloquence  and  wisdom  with  which  he  meant  to 
impress  her,  —  while  he  was  in  truth  incapable 
of  understanding  how  deep  her  natural  insight 
penetrated  him  and  his  pretensions.  He  did 
understand,  however,  that  she  gave  him  no  small 
encouragement ;  and  thus  making  him  only  the 
more  eager  after  her  good  opinion,  he  came  at 
last  to  imagine  himself  heartily  in  love  with  her, 
—  a  thing  at  present  impossible  to  him  with  any 
woman,  —  until,  encouraged  by  the  fancied  im- 
portance of  his  position,  and  his  own  fancied 
distinction  in  it,  he  ventured  an  offer  of  his 
feeble  hand  and  feebler  heart,  —  only  to  have 
them,  to  his  surprise,  definitely  and  absolutely 
36 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

refused.  He  turned  from  her  door  a  good  deal 
disappointed,  but  severely  mortified  ;  and,  judg- 
ing it  impossible  for  any  woman  to  keep  silence 
concerning  such  a  refusal,  unable  also  to  endure 
the  thought  of  the  gossip  to  ensue,  he  began  at 
once  to  look  about  him  for  a  refuge,  and  frankly 
told  his  patron  the  whole  story.  It  happened  to 
suit  his  grace's  plans,  and  he  came  speedily  to 
his  assistance  with  the  offer  of  his  native  parish, 
whence  the  soutar's  arguing  antagonist  had  just 
been  elevated  to  a  position,  probably  not  a  very 
distinguished  one,  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 
Then  it  seemed  to  all  but  a  natural  piety  that 
made  James  Blatherwick  exchange  his  living  for 
the  parish  where  his  father  and  mother  lived 
prospering. 


37 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  soutar  was  still  meditating  on  things  spirit- 
ual, still  reading  the  Gospel  of  St.  John,  still 
making  and  mending  shoes,  and  still  watching 
the  spiritual  development  of  his  daughter.  She 
had  now  unfolded  what  not  a  few  of  the  neigh- 
bours, with  most  of  whom  she  was  in  favour, 
counted  nothing  less  than  beauty.  The  farm 
labourers  in  the  vicinity  were  nearly  all  more  or 
less  her  admirers,  and  many  a  pair  of  shoes  was 
carried  to  her  father  for  the  sake  of  a  possible 
smile  from  Maggie;  but  because  of  a  certain 
awe  that  was  at  once  felt  in  her  presence,  no  one 
had  as  yet  dared  a  word  to  her  beyond  that  of 
greeting  or  farewell.  No  one  had  felt  in  her 
anything  repellent,  but  each  when  he  looked 
upon  her  became  immediately  aware  of  inferi- 
ority. Her  dark  and  in  a  way  mysterious 
beauty  had  not  a  little  to  do  with  it,  for  it 
seemed  to  suggest  behind  it  a  beauty  it  was  un- 
able to  reveal. 

She  was  rather  but  by  no  means  remarkably 
short  in  stature,  being  of  a  strong  active  type, 
altogether  well  proportioned,  with  a  face  won- 
38 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

derfully  calm  and  clear,  and  quiet  but  keen  dark 
eyes.  Her  complexion  owed  its  white  rose  tinge 
to  a  strong  but  gentle  life,  and  its  few  freckles  to 
the  pale  sun  of  Scotland,  and  the  breezes  she 
courted  bonnetless  upon  the  hills,  when  she  ac- 
companied her  father  in  his  walks,  or  when  she 
carried  home  some  work  he  had  finished.  He 
rejoiced  in  her  delight  with  the  wind,  holding 
that  it  indicated  sympathy  with  the  Spirit  whose 
symbol  it  was.  He  loved  to  think  of  that  Spirit 
as  folding  her  about,  closer  and  more  lovingly 
than  his  own  cherishing  soul,  to  which  never  an 
action  of  hers,  and  seldom  even  a  word,  caused 
a  throb  of  anxiety.  Of  her  own  impulse,  and 
almost  from  the  moment  of  her  mother's  death, 
she  had  given  herself  to  his  service,  doing  all 
the  little  duties  of  the  house,  and,  as  her  strength 
and  faculty  grew,  with  a  tenderness  of  ministra- 
tion unusual  at  her  years,  helping  him  more  and 
more  in  his  trade,  until  by  degrees  she  had 
grown  so  familiar  with  the  lighter  parts  of  it  that 
he  could  leave  them  to  her  with  confidence.  As 
soon  as  she  had  cleared  away  the  few  things 
necessary  for  a  breakfast  of  porridge  and  milk, 
to  which  they  held  fast,  declining  the  more  deli- 
cate but  far  inferior  wheaten  bread,  Maggie 
would  hasten  to  join  her  father  stooping  over  his 
last,  for  he  was  a  little  short-sighted.  When  he 
lifted  his  head  you  saw  that,  notwithstanding  the 
39 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

ruggedncss  of  his  face,  he  was  a  good-looking 
man,  with  strong,  well-proportioned  features, 
although  even  on  Sundays,  when  he  scrubbed 
his  face  unmercifully,  there  would  still  remain  in 
some  of  its  furrows  lines  more  than  suggestive 
of  ingrained  rosin  and  heel-ball.  On  week  days 
he  was  not  so  careful  to  remove  every  sign  of 
the  labour  by  which  he  earned  his  bread ;  but 
when  his  work  was  indeed  over  till  the  morning, 
and  he  felt  himself  free  to  do  what  he  pleased, 
he  would  never  even  touch  a  book  without  first 
carefully  washing  his  hands  and  face. 

In  the  workshop,  Maggie's  place  was  a  leather- 
seated  stool  like  her  father's,  a  yard  or  so  away 
from  his,  leaving  room  for  his  elbows  in  drawing 
out  the  lingels  {rosined  threads) ;  there  she  would 
at  once  resume  the  work  she  had  left  unfinished 
the  night  before.  It  was  a  curious  trait  in  the 
father,  early  inherited  by  the  daughter,  that  he 
would  never  rise  from  a  finished  job,  however 
near  the  hour  for  dropping  work,  without  hav- 
ing begun  another  to  go  on  with  in  the  morn- 
ing. There  was  this  difference  in  result  between 
their  two  modes  of  working,  that,  while  the 
daughter  was  quite  as  particular  and  excellent 
in  her  finish,  it  was  wonderful  how  much  cleaner 
she  managed  to  keep  her  hands.  But  then  to 
her  fell  naturally  the  lighter  work  for  women 
and  children.  She  declared  herself  ambitious, 
40 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

however,  of  one  day  making  throughout,  with 
her  own  hands,  a  perfect  pair  of  top  boots. 

The  advantages  to  Maggie  of  constant  inter- 
course with  her  father  were  incalculable.  With- 
out the  least  loss  to  her  freedom  of  thought,  nay, 
on  the  contrary,  to  the  far  more  rapid  develop- 
ment of  her  liberty  in  all  true  directions,  the 
soutar  seemed  to  avoid  no  subject  as  unsuitable 
for  the  girl's  consideration,  insisting  only  on  re- 
garding it  from  the  highest  attainable  point  of 
view.  Matters  of  indifferent  import  they  sel- 
dom, if  ever,  discussed  at  all ;  and  nothing  that 
she  knew  her  father  cared  about  did  Maggie 
ever  allude  to  with  indifference.  Full  of  an  hon- 
est hilarity,  ever  ready  to  break  out  when  oc- 
casion occurred,  she  was  incapable  of  a  light 
word  upon  a  sacred  subject.  Such  merriment 
or  such  jokes  as  one,  more  than  elsewhere,  is  in 
danger  of  hearing  among  the  clergy  of  any 
church,  from  the  cause  that  such  are  more 
familiar  than  other  people  with  the  Scriptures, 
she  very  seldom  heard  in  her  father's  company. 
But  she  became  early  aware  that  he  made  dis- 
tinctions: it  much  depended  on  the  nature  of 
the  joke  how  the  soutar  would  take  it;  and  not 
every  one  might  be  capable  of  perceiving  why 
he  should  now  smile  and  now  keep  a  severe 
silence.  One  thing  sure  to  offend  him  was  a 
light  use  of  any  word  of  the  Lord.  If  it  were 
41 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

an  ordinary  man  who  thus  offended,  he  would 
rebuke  him,  —  perhaps  by  asking  if  he  remem- 
bered who  said  the  words,  perhaps  by  an  irre- 
sponsive stillness;  but  if  it  was  a  man  in  any 
way  specially  regarded,  he  might  say  something 
to  this  effect,  "  The  Maister  doesna  forget 
whaur  and  when  he  spak  thae  words :  I  houp 
ye  do !  "  Once  or  twice  only  in  her  life  had 
Maggie  heard  him  express  himself  in  such 
fashion,  but  it  had  an  immediate  and  lasting  in- 
fluence upon  her  personal  reverence  for  Jesus 
Christ,  so  different  from  the  killing  theological 
regard  of  the  Saviour  then  cultivated  in  Scot- 
land !  Indeed  the  most  powerful  force  in  the 
education  of  Maggie  was  the  evident  attitude  of 
her  father  towards  that  Son  of  Man  who  was 
bringing  up  the  children  of  God  to  the  knowl- 
edge of  that  Father  of  whom  the  whole  family 
in  heaven  and  earth  is  named.  Around  His 
name  gathered  his  whole  consciousness  and  hope 
of  well-being.  Nor  was  it  wonderful  that  certain 
of  his  ways  of  thinking  should  pass  unhindered 
into  the  mind  of  his  child,  and  there  show 
themselves  as  original  and  necessary  truths. 
Mingling  with  her  delights  in  the  inanimate 
powers  of  Nature,  in  the  sun  and  the  wind,  in 
the  rain  and  the  growth,  in  the  running  waters 
and  the  darkness  sown  with  stars,  was  a  sense  of 
the  presence  of  the  Son  of  Man,  such  that  she 
42 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

felt  he  might  at  any  moment  appear  to  her 
father,  or  indeed,  should  it  so  please  Him,  to 
herself.  And  soon  an  event  occurred  which, 
giving  her  quite  a  new  object  of  thought,  har- 
monised and  brought  into  more  practical  activity 
all  her  other  thinkings. 

Two  or  three  miles  away,  in  the  heart  of  the 
hills,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  farm  of  Stonecross, 
lived  an  old  cottar  and  his  wife.  They  paid  a 
few  shillings  of  rent  to  Mr.  Blatherwick  for  the 
acre  or  two  their  ancestors  had  redeemed  from 
the  heather  and  bog,  and  with  their  one  son 
remaining  at  home  gave  occasional  service 
when  required  on  the  farm.  They  were  much 
respected  both  by  the  farmer  and  his  wife,  as 
well  as  the  small  circle  to  which  they  were 
known  in  the  neighbouring  village,  —  better 
known,  and  more  respected  still  probably,  in  the 
region  called  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  For  they 
were  such  as  he  to  whom  the  promise  was  given, 
that  he  should  yet  see  the  angels  of  God  ascend- 
ing and  descending  on  the  Son  of  Man  ;  and  with 
such  beings,  although  science  has  nothing  to  tell 
us  about  them,  this  worthy  pair  may  yet  have 
had  some  intercourse.  They  had  long  and 
heartily  loved  and  honoured  the  soutar,  whom 
they  had  known  before  the  death  of  his  wife, 
a  God-fearing  woman,  such  as  at  the  time  were 
many  in  that  part  of  the  country,  and  for  both 
43 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

their  sakes  had  always  befriended  the  motherless 
Maggie.  They  could  not  greatly  pity  her,  seeing 
she  had  such  a  father,  yet  old  Eppie  had  her 
occasional  moments  of  anxiety  as  to  how  the 
bairn  would  grow  up  without  a  mother's  care. 
No  sooner,  however,  did  the  little  one  begin  to 
show  character,  than  Eppie's  doubt  began  to 
abate,  and  long  before  the  time  to  which  my 
narrative  has  now  come  the  child  and  the 
childlike  old  woman  were  fast  friends ;  whence 
Maggie  was  often  invited  to  spend  a  day  at  Bog- 
sheuch,  —  oftener  indeed  than  she  felt  at  liberty 
to  leave  her  father  and  their  common  work, 
though  not  oftener  than  she  would  have  liked 
to  go. 

One  day  about  noon,  in  the  early  summer, 
when  first  the  hillsides  began  to  look  attrac- 
tive, a  small  agricultural  cart,  such  as  is  now 
but  seldom  seen,  with  little  paint  except  on  its 
two  red  wheels,  and  drawn  by  a  thin,  long- 
haired littlQ  horse,  stopped  at  the  door  of  the 
soutar's  clay-floored,  straw-thatched  house,  in 
a  back-lane  of  the  village.  It  was  a  cart  the 
cottar  used  in  the  cultivation  of  his  little  hold- 
ing, and  the  man  who  drove  it,  now  nearly 
middle-aged,  was  likely  to  succeed  to  the  hut 
and  acres  of  Bogsheuch.  Both  man  and  equi- 
page were  well  known  to  the  soutar  and  Maggie ; 
they  had  come  with  an  invitation  to  Maggie, 
44 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

more  pressing  than  usual,  to  pay  them  a  visit 
of  a  few  days. 

Father  and  daughter,  consulting  together  in 
the  presence  of  Andrew  Cormack,  arrived  at 
the  conclusion  that,  work  being  rather  slacker 
than  usual,  and  nobody  in  need  of  a  promised 
job  which  the  soutar  could  not  finish  by  himself 
in  good  time,  she  should  go.  Maggie  sprang 
up  joyfully,  —  not  without  a  little  pang  at  the 
thought  of  leaving  her  father  alone,  though  she 
knew  him  quite  equal  to  do  all  that  would  be 
necessary  in  the  house  before  her  return,  —  and 
set  about  preparing  their  dinner,  while  Andrew 
went  to  execute  a  few  commissions  that  the 
mistress  and  his  mother  had  given  him.  By 
the  time  he  returned  Maggie  was  in  her  Sunday 
gown,  with  her  week-day  wrapper  and  winsey 
petticoat  in  a  bundle,  for  she  reckoned  on  being 
of  some  use  to  Eppie  during  her  visit. 

When  they  had  eaten  their  humble  dinner, 
Andrew  brought  the  cart  to  the  door,  and  Mag- 
gie scrambled  into  it. 

"Tak'  a  piece  wi'  ye,"  said  her  father;  "ye 
hadna  muckle  to  yer  denner,  and  ye  may  be 
hungry  again  or  ye  win  ower  the  lang  rouch 
road. " 

He  went  back  into  the  house,  and  brought 
her  two  pieces  of  oatcake  in  his  hand.  She 
received  them  with  a  loving  smile,  and  they 
45 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

set  out  at  a  walking  pace,  which  Andrew  did 
not  attempt  once  to  quicken. 

It  was  far  from  a  comfortable  carriage, 
neither  was  her  wisp  of  straw  in  the  bottom  of  it 
very  comfortable  to  sit  upon.  The  change  from 
her  stool  and  from  the  close  attention  her  work 
required,  to  the  open  air  and  the  free  rush  of  the 
thoughts  that  came  crowding  to  her  out  of  the 
wideness,  instead  of  having  to  be  sought,  and 
sometimes  with  difficulty  retained,  put  her  at 
once  in  a  blissful  mood ;  so  that  even  the  few 
dull  remarks  the  slow-thinking  Andrew  made 
at  intervals  from  his  perch  on  the  front  of 
the  cart,  came  to  her  from  the  realm  of  faerie, 
the  mysterious  world  that  lay  in  the  folds  of  the 
huddled  hills.  Everything  Maggie  saw  or  heard 
that  afternoon  seemed,  at  least  in  the  retro- 
spect, to  wear  the  glamour  of  God's  imagination 
which  is  the  birth  and  the  truth  of  things. 
Selfishness  alone  can  rub  away  that  divine  gild- 
ing, without  which  gold  itself  is  poor  indeed. 

Suddenly  the  little  horse  stood  still.  An- 
drew, waking  up  from  a  snooze,  jumped  at  once 
to  the  ground,  and  began,  still  half  asleep,  to 
search  into  the  cause  of  the  arrest ;  for  Jess, 
although  she  could  not  make  haste,  never  of  her 
own  accord  stood  still  while  able  to  walk. 
Maggie,  however,  had  for  some  time  noted  that 
they  were  making  very  slow  progress. 
46 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  She  's  deid  cripple !  "  said  Andrew,  straight- 
ening his  long  back  from  an  examination  of 
Jess's  forefeet,  and  coming  to  Maggie's  side  of 
the  cart  with  a  serious  face;  "I  dinna  believe 
the  crater  can  gang  ae  step  furder.  Yet  I  canna 
see  what 's  happent  her." 

Maggie  was  on  the  road  before  he  had  done 
speaking.  Andrew  tried  once  more  to  lead 
Jess,   but  at  once  desisted. 

"It  wud  be  fell  cruelty!"  he  said.  "We 
maun  jist  lowse  her  and  tak'  her  gien  we  can 
to  the  How  o'  the  Mains.  They  '11  gie  her  a 
nicht's  quarters  there,  puir  thing!  And  we'll 
see  gien  they  can  tak'  you  in  as  weel,  Maggie. 
The  maister  '11  len'  me  a  horse  to  come  for  ye 
i'  the  morning,  I  haena  a  doobt. " 

"  I  winna  hear  o'  't !  "  answered  Maggie.  "  I 
can  tramp  the  lave  o'  the  road  as  weel 's  you, 
Andrew ! " 

"  But  I  hae  a'  thae  things  to  cairry,  an'  that  '11 
no  lea'  me  a  han'  to  help  ye  ower  the  burn! " 
objected  Andrew. 

"What  o'  that.!"'  she  returned.  "I  was  sae 
fell  tired  o'  sittin'  that  my  legs  are  jist  like  to 
rin  awa'  wi'  me.  Lat  me  jist  dook  mysel'  i' 
the  bonny  win',"  she  added.  "  Isna  it  just  like 
awfu'  thin  watter,  An'rew.^*  Here,  gie  me  a 
baud  o'  that  loaf.  I 's  carry  that  and  my  ain  bit 
bundle ;  syne,  I  fancy,  ye  can  manage  the  lave  ? " 
47 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

Andrew  never  had  much  to  say,  and  this  time 
he  had  nothing.  But  her  readiness  relieved 
him  of  some  anxiety;  his  mother  would  be  very 
uncomfortable  if  he  went  home  without  her ! 

Maggie's  spirits  rose  to  lark-pitch  as  the 
darkness  came  on  and  deepened.  The  wind 
seemed  to  her  now  a  live  gloom,  in  which,  with 
no  eye-bound  to  the  space  enclosing  her,  she 
could  go  on  imagining  after  the  freedom  of  her 
own  wild  will ;  and  as  the  world  and  everything 
in  it  disappeared,  it  grew  the  easier  to  imagine 
Jesus  first  making  the  darkness  light  about  him, 
and  then  stepping  out  of  it  plain  before  her 
sight.  That  could  be  no  trouble  to  him, 
she  argued,  as,  being  everywhere,  he  must  be 
there.  Besides,  he  could  appear  in  any  form, 
she  thought,  because  he  had  made  every  shape 
on  the  earth  !  "  Oh,  if  only  she  were  fit  to  see 
him !  Then  surely  he  would  come ! "  Her 
father  had  several  times  spoken  to  her  after  this 
fashion,  when  talking  of  the  varied  appearances 
of  the  Lord  to  his  disciples  after  his  resurrec- 
tion ;  and  had  he  not  then  said  that  he  would 
be  with  them  to  the  end  of  the  world .''  Why 
then  might  he  not  be  seen  of  any  one  of  them.^ 
Even  after  he  ascended  to  his  Father,  had  he 
not  appeared  to  the  apostle  Paul?  and  was  it 
not  very  probable  that  he  had  shown  himself  to 
many  another,  although  at  long  intervals  through 
48 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

the  ages  ?  In  any  case  he  was  everywhere,  she 
thought,  and  always  about  them,  although  now, 
perhaps  because  of  the  lack  of  faith  in  the  earth, 
he  had  not  been  seen  for  a  very  long  time. 
And  she  remembered  her  father  once  saying 
that  nobody  could  even  think  a  thing  if  there 
was  no  possible  truth  in  it.  It  was  good  for  the 
Lord  to  go  away,  said  her  father,  that  they 
might  believe  in  him  when  out  of  the  sight  of 
him,  and  so  believe  in  him  better  and  grow 
stronger  in  their  power  to  believe.  But,  indeed, 
if  he  was  in  them,  and  they  were  in  him,  how 
could  they  help  it } 

"I  dinna  think,"  said  Maggie  aloud  to  her- 
self, as  she  trudged  along  beside  the  delightfully 
silent  Andrew,  "that  my  father  would  be  the 
least  astonished  —  only  filled  wi'  an  awfu' 
glaidness  —  if  at  ony  moment,  waulkin'  at  his 
side,  the  Lord  were  to  call  him  by  his  name  and 
appear  to  him.  He  would  but  feel  as  gien  he 
had  just  steppit  oot  upon  him  frae  some  secret 
door!  I  fancy  my  father  sayin',  *I  thoucht. 
Lord,  I  would  see  you  some  day !  Eh,  ye  are 
good  to  me.  Son  o'  my  Father!  Jist  tak'  the 
life  o'  me  gien  ye  like.  I  was  aye  greedy  efter 
a  sicht  o'  ye,  Lord,  and  here  ye  are.  Praise 
God! '  That  's  what  I  think  my  father  would 
say." 


49 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER  V 

The  same  moment  to  her  ears  came  the  cry  of 
an  infant,  and  her  first  thought  was,  "  Can  that 
be  himsel'  come  again  as  he  cam'  afore?" 

She  stopped  in  the  dusky  starlight,  listening 
with  all  her  soul. 

"  Andrew !  "  she  cried,  for  she  heard  the  sound 
of  his  steps  as  he  plodded  on  in  front  of  her  with 
a  good  mile  yet  to  be  traversed,  and  could 
vaguely  see  him,  —  "  Andrew,  what  was  yon?  " 

"  I  h'ard  naething,"  answered  Andrew,  stop- 
ping at  her  cry  and  listening. 

Then  came  a  second  cry,  a  feeble,  sad  wail,  and 
then  both  heard  it.  Maggie  darted  off  in  the 
direction  whence  it  seemed  to  come ;  nor  had  she 
far  to  run,  for  the  voice  was  not  one  to  reach  far. 

They  were  at  the  moment  climbing  a  dreary, 
desolate  ridge  by  a  rough  road,  a  mere  stony 
hollow,  in  winter  a  path  for  the  rain  rather  than 
the  feet  of  men.  On  each  side  of  it  lay  a  wild 
moor,  covered  with  heather  and  low  berry- 
bearing  shrubs ;  under  a  big  bush  Maggie  saw 
something  glimmer,  and  flying  to  it  found  it  a 
50 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

child,  apparently  about  a  year  old,  but  poorly 
nourished.  With  the  instinct  of  a  mother,  she 
caught  it  up,  and  held  it  close  to  her  exultant 
breathless  bosom,  delighted  not  only  to  have 
found  it,  but  that  it  ceased  wailing  the  moment 
it  felt  the  pressure  of  her  arm.  Andrew,  drop- 
ping the  things  he  carried,  had  started  after  her, 
but  met  her  half-way  with  her  new-found  treasure. 
Maggie  had  never  cared,  for  a  doll,  because  it 
was  not  alive,  but  her  whole  being  seemed  at 
once  to  wrap  itself  around  the  baby  because  it 
needed  her.  She  all  but  ran  against  the  pursuing 
Andrew,  having  no  eyes  except  for  the  baby; 
then  avoiding  him,  began,  to  his  amazement,  to 
run  down  the  hill,  back  the  way  they  had  come  ; 
she  thought  of  nothing  but  carrying  the  child 
home  to  her  father.  But  here  even  the  slow 
perception  of  her  companion  understood  her. 

"  Maggie,  Maggie,"  he  cried,  "  ye  '11  baith  be 
deid  afore  ye  win  hame  wi'  't.  Come  on  to  my 
mither.  There  never  was  woman  like  her  for 
bairns  !  She  '11  ken  a  hantle  better  what  to  do 
wi"t!" 

Maggie  at  once  recovered  her  reason,  and 
knew  he  was  right.  But  at  the  moment  she  had 
an  insight  that  never  left  her ;  she  understood 
the  heart  of  the  Son  of  Man,  who  came  to  find 
and  carry  back  all  the  stray  children  to  their 
Father  and  his.  When  afterward  she  told  her 
51 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

father  what  she  then  felt,  he  answered  her  with 
just  four  words,  — 

"  Lassie,  ye  hae  't !  " 

She  wrapped  the  baby  in  the  winsey  petticoat, 
lest  it  should  grow  cold  while  she  carried  it 
through  the  night-air.  Andrew  took  up  his  loaf 
and  his  other  packages.  They  set  out  again, 
Maggie's  heart  overwhelmed  with  gladness.  Had 
the  precious  thing  been  twice  the  weight  of  the 
solid  little  lump  it  was,  so  exuberant  were  her 
feelings  of  wealth  and  delight  that  she  could 
have  carried  it  twice  the  distance  with  ease,  and 
that  though  the  road  was  so  rough  that  she  went 
in  terror  of  stumbling.  Andrew  gave  now  and 
then  a  queer  chuckle  at  the  ludicrousness  of  their 
home-coming,  and  every  other  minute  had  to 
stop  and  pick  up  one  of  his  many  parcels ;  but 
Maggie  strode  in  front,  full  of  possession,  and 
with  a  feeling  of  having  now  entered  upon  her 
heavenly  inheritance.  She  was  almost  startled 
when  suddenly,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  they  came 
in  sight  of  the  turf  cottage,  in  whose  little  window 
an  oil  lamp  was  burning.  Before  they  reached 
it  the  door  opened,  and  Eppie  appeared  with  an 
overflow  of  questions  and  anxious  welcome. 

"  What  on  earth  —  "  she  began. 

"  It 's  naething  but  a  bonny  wee  bairnie  wha's 
mither  has  tint  it !  "  interrupted  Maggie,  flying 
up  to  her,  and  laying  the  child  in  her  arms. 
52 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

Mrs.  Cormack  stood  and  stared,  now  at  Mag- 
gie, and  now  at  the  bundle  that  lay  in  her  arms. 
Tenderly,  at  length,  the  old  mother,  searching 
in  the  petticoat,  found  the  little  one's  face,  and 
uncovered  the  sleeping  child. 

"  Eh,  the  puir  mither !  "  she  said  —  and  cov- 
ered again  the  tiny  countenance. 

"  It 's  mine  !  "  cried  Maggie.  "  I  faund  it 
honest !  " 

"  Its  mither  may  ha'  lost  it  honest,  Maggie !  " 
said  Eppie. 

"  Weel,  its  mither  can  come  for 't  gien  she 
want  it !  It 's  mine  till  she  does,  ony  gait !  "  re- 
joined the  girl. 

"  Nae  doobt  o*  that !  "  replied  the  old  woman, 
scarcely  questioning  that  the  infant  had  been 
left  to  perish  by  some  worthless  tramp.  "  Ye  'II 
maybe  hae  't  langer  nor  ye  '11  care  to  keep  it !  " 
"  That 's  no  verra  likely,"  answered  Maggie, 
with  a  smile,  as  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  in  the 
wakeful  night  of  the  northern  summer;  "it's 
ane  o'  the  Lord's  ain  lammies  that  he  cam'  to 
the  hills  to  seek.     He 's  fund  this  ane  !  " 

"  Weel,  weel,  my  bonnie  doo,  it  sanna  be  for 
me  to  contradick  ye  !  But  wae  's  upo'  me  for  a 
menseless  auld  wife  !  Come  in ;  come  in ;  ye  're 
the  mair  welcome  that  ye  hae  been  sae  lang  ex- 
peckit.  Bless  me,  An'rew,  what  hae  ye  dune 
wi'  the  cairt  and  the  beastie  ?  " 
53 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

In  a  few  words,  for  brevity  was  easy  to  him, 
Andrew  told  the  story  of  their  disaster, 

"  It  maun  hae  been  the  Lord's  mercy  !  The 
beastie  bude  to  suffer  for  the  sake  of  the  bairnie  ! 
He  maybe  wants  to  mak'  something  o'  him  bye 
the  common !  " 

She  got  them  their  supper,  which  was  keeping 
hot  by  the  fire,  and  then  sent  Maggie  to  her  bed 
in  the  ben-end,  where  she  laid  the  baby  beside 
her,  after  washing  him  and  wrapping  him  in  her 
own  newest  shift.  But  Maggie  scarcely  slept 
for  listening  lest  the  baby's  breathing  should 
stop.  Eppie  sat  in  the  kitchen  with  Andrew 
until  the  light,  slowly  travelling  rotmd  the  north, 
deepened  in  the  east,  and  at  last  climbed  the 
sky,  leading  up  the  sun  himself.  Then  Andrew 
rose,  and  set  his  face  towards  Stonecross,  in  full 
but  not  very  anxious  expectation  of  a  stormy  re- 
ception from  his  mistress  before  he  had  time  to 
explain.  He  would  gladly  have  said  as  little  as 
possible  about  their  treasure  trove,  but  reflect- 
ing that  the  mistress  was  terrible  at  "  speirin' 
questions,"  he  resolved  to  tell  her  all  about  it. 
When  he  reached  home,  however,  the  house 
was  not  yet  astir ;  and  he  had  time  to  feed  and 
groom  his  horses  before  any  one  was  about,  so 
that  no  explanation  was  necessary  as  to  the  hour 
when  he  returned. 

All  the  next  day  Maggie  was  ill  at  case, 
54 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

dreading  the  appearance  of  a  mother.  The 
baby  seemed  nothing  the  worse  for  his  ex- 
posure, and  although  thin  and  pale  seemed  a 
healthy  child,  and  took  heartily  the  food  pro- 
vided for  him.  He  was  decently  though  poorly 
clad,  and  very  clean.  The  tale  of  his  finding 
was  speedily  known  in  the  neighbourhood,  for 
the  Cormacks  made  inquiry  at  every  farmhouse 
and  cottage  within  range  of  the  moor;  but  to 
the  satisfaction  of  Maggie  at  least,  who  fretted 
to  get  home  with  her  treasure,  it  had  no  result, 
and  by  the  time  the  period  of  her  visit  arrived, 
she  had  begun  to  feel  tolerably  safe  in  her  pos- 
session, with  which  she  returned  in  triumph  to 
her  father. 

The  long-haired  horse  not  yet  proving  equal 
to  the  journey,  she  had  to  walk  home  ;  but 
Eppie  herself  accompanied  her,  bent  on  taking 
her  share  in  the  burden  of  the  child,  which 
Maggie  was  with  difficulty  persuaded  to  yield. 
Eppie  indeed  carried  him  up  to  the  soutar's 
door,  but  Maggie  insisted  on  herself  laying  him 
in  her  father's  arms.  The  soutar  rose  from  his 
stool,  received  him  like  Simeon  taking  the  in- 
fant Jesus  from  the  arms  of  his  mother,  and  held 
him  high  like  a  heave-offering  to  Him  that  had 
sent  him  forth  from  the  hidden  Holiest  of 
Holies.  For  a  moment  he  held  him  thus  in  si- 
lence, then,  restoring  him  to  his  daughter,  sat 
55 


SALTED   WITH  FIRE 

down  again,  and  took  up  his  last  and  shoe.  But 
becoming  suddenly  aware  of  his  breach  of  man- 
ners, he  rose  again,  saying,  — 

"  I  crave  yer  pardon,  Mistress  Cormack.  I 
was  clean  forgettin'  ony  breedin'  I  ever  had ! 
Maggie,  tak'  oor  freen  ben  the  hoose,  and  gar 
her  rest  her  a  bit  while  ye  get  something  for  her 
to  eat  and  drink  efter  her  long  walk,  I  '11  be 
ben  mysel'  in  a  minute  or  twa  to  hae  a  crack  wi' 
her.  I  hae  but  a  few  stitches  mair  to  put  intill 
this  same  sole !  We  maun  tak'  some  serious 
coonsel  thegither,  the  three  o'  's,  anent  the  up- 
bringin'  o'  this  God-sent  bairn !  I  dootna  but 
he 's  come  wi'  a  blessin'  to  this  hoose,  and  Mag- 
gie, and  me.  It  was  a'  in  sic  mercifu'  wise  ar- 
rangement, baith  for  the  puir  bairn  and  Maggie, 
that  they  sud  that  nicht  come  thegither.  Verily, 
He  shall  give  his  angels  charge  over  thee ! 
They  maun  hae  been  aboot  the  muir,  maybe  a' 
that  day,  that  nane  but  Maggie  sud  get  a  haud 
o'  'im  —  as  they  were  aboot  the  field  and  the 
flock  and  the  shepherds  and  the  inn-stable  a' 
that  nicht !  " 

The  same  moment  entered  a  neighbour  who, 
having  heard  and  misinterpreted  the  story 
before,  had  now  caught  sight  of  the  arrival. 

"  Eh,  soutar,  but  ye  're  a  man  sair  oppressed 
by  Providence  !  "  she  said.     "  Wha  think  ye  's 
been  i'  the  faut  here?" 
56 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

The  wrath  of  the  soutar  sprang  up  flaming. 

"  Gang  oot  o'  my  hoose,  ye  ill-thouchtit 
wuman !  "  he  cried.  "  Gang  oot  this  verra 
meenit  —  and  comena  in  again  till  it's  to  beg 
my  pardon  and  that  o'  my  bonny  lass.  The 
Lord  God  bless  her  frae  ill  tongues  —  gang  oot, 
I  tell  ye." 

The  outraged  father  had  risen  towering.  All 
the  town  knew  him  for  a  man  of  gentle  temper 
and  great  courtesy.  The  woman  stood  one 
moment  dazed  and  uncertain,  then  turned  and 
ran  from  the  house  ;  and  when  the  soutar  joined 
Mrs.  Cormack  and  Maggie,  he  said  never  a 
word  about  her.  When  Eppie  had  taken  her 
tea,  she  rose  and  bade  them  good-night,  nor 
crossed   another  threshold  in  the  village. 


57 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER  VI 

But  that  same  night,  when  the  baby  had  gone 
to  sleep,  Maggie  went  back  to  the  kitchen 
where  her  father  still  sat  at  work. 

"  Ye  're  late  the  night,  father !  "  she  said. 

"I  am  that,  lassie;  but  ye  see  I  canna  luik 
for  help  frae  you  for  some  time ;  for  ye  '11  hae 
eneuch  to  dae  wi'  that  bairn  o'  yours ;  and  we 
hae  him  to  feed  noo  as  weel  's  oorsel's  !  No  'at 
I  hae  the  least  concern  about  the  bonny  white 
raven,  only  we  maun  consider  him !  " 

"  It 's  little  he  '11  want  for  a  whilie  at  least, 
father !  "  answered  Maggie.  "  But  noo,"  she 
went  on,  in  a  tone  of  seriousness  that  was  almost 
awe,  "  lat  me  hear  what  ye  're  thinkin'.  What 
kin'  o'  a  mither  could  hae  left  her  bairn  i'  the 
wide,  eerie  nicht  —  and  what  for?  " 

"  It  maun  jist  hae  been  some  puir  lassie  that 
didna  think  o'  His  wull,  or  the  consequences  o' 
gaein'  against  it.  She  hadna  learnt  to  consider ! 
She  believet  the  man  whan  he  promised  to 
merry  her,  no  kennin'  he  was  a  leear,  and  no 
heedin'  the  voice  that  spak  inside  her  and  said  ye 
maunna,  sae  she  loot  him  dee  what  he  likit  wi' 
58 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

her,  and  mak'  himscl'  the  father  o'  a  bairnie  that 
wasna  meant  for  him.  He  took  leeberties  wi' 
her  she  ouchtna  to  hae  permittit,  sae  that  she 
was  a  mither  afore  ever  she  was  merried.  Sic 
as  dae  that  hae  an  awfu'  time  o'  't ;  fowk  hardly 
ever  forgies  them,  but  aye  luiks  doon  upo' 
them.  The  rascal  ran  awa'  and  left  her ;  nae- 
body  would  help  her;  she  had  to  beg  the 
breid  for  hersel',  and  the  drap  milk  for  the 
bairnie  that  had  dune  nae  wrang,  but  had  to 
thole  a  great  wrang  frae  its  ain  faither  and 
mither." 

"  I  kenna  whilk  o'  them  was  the  warst !  " 
cried  Maggie. 

"  Nae  mair  do  I !  "  answered  the  soutar ; 
"  but  I  doobt  the  ane  that  lee'd  to  the  ither." 

"  There  canna  be  mony  sic  men !  "  said 
Maggie. 

"  'Deed  there  's  a  heap  o'  men  no  a  hair  bet- 
ter !  "  rejoined  her  father ;  "  but  wae  's  me  for 
the  puir  lassie  that  believes  them !  " 

"  But  she  kenned  what  was  richt  a'  the  time, 
father!  " 

"  That's  true,  my  dautie;  but  to  ken  is  no  to 
un'erstan' ;  and  even  to  un'erstan'  is  no  aye  to 
obey !  No  woman  's  safe  that  hasna  the  love  o' 
God,  the  great  Love,  in  her  hcrt  a'  the  time. 
What 's  best  in  her,  whan  the  very  best 's  awa*,  is 
her  greatest  danger.  And  the  higher  ye  rise  ye 
59 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

come  into  the  waur  danger,  till  ance  ye  're  fairly 
intill  the  ae  safe  place,  the  hert  o*  the  Father. 
There,  and  there  only,  ye  're  safe !  —  safe  frae 
earth,  frae  hell,  and  frae  yer  ain  hert !  A'  the 
temptations,  even  sic  as  ance  made  the  heavenly 
hosts  themsel's  fa'  frae  h'aven  to  hell,  canna 
touch  ye  there !  But  when  man  or  wuman  re- 
pents and  heumbles  themsel',  there  is  He  to  lift 
them  up,  and  that  higher  than  ever  they  were 
afore !  —  higher  than  ever  they  could  hae  won 
withoot  the  sair  lesson  o'  that  fa' !  " 

"  Syne  they  're  no  to  be  despised  that  fa' !  " 

"  Nane  despises  them,  lassie,  but  them  that 
haena  yet  learnt  that  they  're  in  danger  o* 
that  same  fa'  themsel's.  Mony  ane,  I  'm  think- 
ing, is  keepit  frae  fa'in'  jist  because  she's  no  far 
eneuch  on,  to  get  ony  guid  o'  the  shame,  but 
would  jist  sink  farther  and  farther !  " 

•'  But  auld  Eppie  tells  me  that  maist  o'  them 
'at  trips  gangs  on  fa'in',  and  never  wins  up  again." 

"  Ou,  ay ;  that 's  a'  that  we,  short-lived  and 
short-sichtit  craturs,  see  o'  them  !  but  this  warl'  's 
but  the  beginnin',  and  the  glory  o'  Christ,  wha's 
the  veesible  Love  o'  the  Father,  spreads  a  heap 
farther  nor  that.  It's  no  for  naething  we're 
tellt  hoo  the  sinner-women  cam'  till  him  frae  a' 
sides  !  They  needit  him  sair,  and  cam'.  Never 
ane  o'  them  was  ower  black  to  be  latten  gang 
close  up  till  him ;  and  some  o'  sic  women 
60 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

un'erstude  things  that  he  said,  sic  as  mony  a 
respectable  wuman  couldna  get  a  gHmp  o' ! 
There  's  aye  rain  eneuch,  as  Maister  Shaksper 
says,  i'  the  sweet  h'avens  to  wash  the  vera  han' 
o'  murder  as  white  as  snow.  The  creatin'  hert 
is  fu'  o'  sic  rain.  Lo'e  liim,  lassie,  and  ye  '11 
never  glaur  the  bonny  goon  ye  broocht  white 
frae  his  hert !  " 

The  soutar's  face  was  solemn  and  white,  and 
tears  were  running  down  the  furrows  of  his 
cheeks.  Maggie  too  was  weeping.  At  length 
she  said,  — 

"Supposin'  the  mither  o'  my  bairnie  a  wuman 
like  that,  can  ye  think  it  fair  that  her  disgrace 
should  stick  till  hint  ?  " 

"  It  sticks  till  him  only  in  sic  minds  as  never 
saw  the  lovely  greatness  o'  God." 

"  But  sic  bairns  comena  intill  the  warl'  as  God 
would  hae  them  come  !  " 

"  But  your  bairnie  is  come,  and  that  he  couldna 
withoot  the  creatin'  wull  o'  the  great  Father. 
Doobtless  they  hae  to  suffer  frae  the  prood 
jeedgment  o'  their  fellow-men,  but  they  may  get 
muckle  guid  and  little  ill  frae  that,  and  a  guid 
naebody  can  reive  them  o'.  It 's  no  a  mere 
veesitin'  o'  the  sins  o'  the  fathers  upo'  the  bairns, 
but  a  provision  to  haud  the  bairns  aff  o'  the  like, 
and  to  shame  the  fathers  o'  them.  Eh,  but  they 
need  to  be  sair  affrontit  wi'  themsel's  wha  dis- 
6i 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

grace  at  ance  the  wife  that  should  hae  been  and 
the  bairn  that  shouldna  !  Eh  !  the  puir  bairnie 
that  has  sic  a  father !  But  he  has  anither  as 
weel, —  a  richt  gran'  father  to  rin  till.  The  ae 
thing,"  the  soutar  went  on,  "that  you  and  me, 
Maggie,  has  to  do,  is  never  to  let  the  bairn  ken 
the  miss  o'  father  or  mother,  and  sae  lead  him  to 
the  ae  Father,  the  only  real  and  true  ane.  There 
he  's  wailin',  the  bonny  wee  man  !  " 

Maggie  ran  to  quiet  him,  but  soon  returned, 
and,  sitting  down  again  beside  her  father,  asked 
him  for  a  piece  of  work. 

And  all  this  time,  through  his  own  indifference, 
the  would-be-grand  preacher,  James  Blatherwick, 
knew  nothing  of  the  fact  that,  somewhere  in 
the  world,  without  father  or  mother,  lived  and 
breathed  a  silent  witness  against  him. 


62 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER  VII 

For  some  time  Isy  had  contrived  to  postpone 
her  return  to  her  aunt, —  that  was,  until  James 
was  gone ;  for  she  dreaded  being  in  the  house, 
lest  it  should  lead  to  the  discovery  of  the  rela- 
tion between  them.  But  soon  she  had  to  en- 
counter the  appalling  fact  that  the  dread  moment 
was  on  its  way  when  she  could  no  longer  con- 
ceal the  change  in  her  condition ;  and  her  first 
thought  then  was  the  good  name  of  her  lover,  — 
to  avoid  involving  him  in  the  approaching  ruin 
of  her  reputation.  With  this  intent  she  vowed 
to  God  and  to  her  own  soul  absolute  silence 
with  regard  to  the  past.  James's  name  even 
should  never  pass  her  lips !  Nor  did  she  find 
her  vow  hard  to  keep,  even  when  her  aunt  took 
measures  to  make  her  disclose  her  secret ;  but 
the  dread  lest  in  her  pains  she  should  cry  out 
for  the  comfort  which  James  alone  could  give 
her,  almost  drove  her  to  poison,  —  from  yielding 
to  which  temptation  only  the  thought  of  his 
child  restrained  her.  Filled  with  fear,  and  hope- 
less of  any  good,  enabled  only  by  the  inex- 
orable inevitability  that  held  her,  she  passed  at 
length  through  the  crisis  of  that  agony  which 
63 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

no  man  but  the  Son  of  Man  can  understand,  and 
found  herself  ahve  and  breathless  on  the  other 
side.  In  the  glad  calm  of  her  relief,  she  locked 
tight  her  lips,  and  no  more  ever  feared  being 
tempted  to  name  the  father  of  her  child.  Thus 
the  poor  girl  who  was  weak  enough  to  imperil 
her  good  name  for  love  of  a  worthless  man, 
grew  strong  through  that  love  to  shield  him. 
Whether  in  this  she  did  well  for  the  world,  for 
truth,  or  for  her  own  soul,  she  never  wasted  a 
thought  on  the  matter.  In  vain  did  her  aunt  ply 
her  with  questions,  promising  never  to  utter  a 
word  of  reproach  if  only  she  would  speak  the 
one  name ;  she  was  rigidly  obstinate.  She  felt 
that  to  comply  would  be  to  wrong  him,  and  so 
to  lose  her  last  righteous  hold  upon  the  man 
who  had  at  least  once  loved  her  a  little.  Through 
shame  and  blame,  she  clung  to  his  scathlessness 
as  the  one  only  joy  left  her.  She  had  not  a 
gleam,  not  even  a  shadow,  of  hope  for  herself. 
He  had  most  likely  all  but  forgotten  her  very 
existence,  for  he  had  never  written  to  her,  or, 
so  far  as  she  knew,  made  the  least  effort  to  dis- 
cover what  had  become  of  her.  She,  on  her 
part  also,  had  never  written  to  him ;  but  how 
could  he  fail  to  know  the  motive  of  her  quies- 
cence !  At  the  same  time  she  clung  to  the  con- 
viction that  he  could  never  have  heard  of  what 
had  befallen  her. 

64 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

By  and  by  she  grew  able  to  reflect  that  re- 
maining where  she  was  would  be  the  ruin  of 
her  aunt;  for  who  would  lodge  in  the  same 
house  with  Jicr  ?  In  her  exhausted  physical 
condition,  her  longing  to  go,  and  the  impossi- 
bility of  going  at  once,  or  even  of  thinking 
where  to  go,  so  wrought  upon  her  brain,  already 
weakened  by  the  demands  of  the  baby,  that  she 
was  on  the  very  verge  of  despair,  but  again 
strength  came  to  her  from  the  thought  of  her 
child,  and  for  his  sake  she  lived  on.  One  shred 
of  the  cloud,  however,  that  had  at  one  time  all 
but  overwhelmed  her  intellect,  remained,  —  the 
fixed  idea  that,  agonising  as  had  been  her  effort 
after  silence,  she  had  failed  in  her  resolve  and 
broken  the  promise  she  imagined  she  had  given 
to  James ;  that  she  had  been  false  to  her  lover, 
had  brought  him  to  shame,  and  for  ever  ruined 
his  prospects  ;  she  had  betrayed  him,  she  thought, 
first,  into  the  power  of  her  aunt,  and  then, 
through  her,  to  the  authorities  of  the  church! 
That  was  why  she  never  heard  a  word  from 
him !  She  was  never  to  see  him  any  more ! 
The  conviction,  the  seeming  consciousness,  so 
grew  upon  her,  along  with  the  sense  of  the 
impossibility  of  remaining  with  her  aunt,  that, 
one  morning,  when  her  infant  was  not  yet  a 
month  old,  she  crept  from  the  house  and  wan- 
dered out  into  the  world,  with  just  one  shilling 
5  65 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

in  a  purse  forgotten  in  the  pocket  of  her  dress. 
Then  for  a  time  her  memory  seemed  to  have  lost 
all  hold  upon  her  consciousness,  and  all  that 
befell  her  remained  a  blank,  refusing  to  be 
recalled. 

When  she  began  to  come  to  herself,  she  had 
no  knowledge  of  where  she  had  been,  or  for  how 
long  her  mind  had  been  astray;  all  seemed  a 
dread  blank,  crossed  with  cloud-like  trails  of 
blotted  dreams,  and  vague  survivals  of  grati- 
tude for  bread  and  pieces  of  money.  Every- 
thing she  became  aware  of  surprised  her;  but 
one  thing  she  never  seemed  to  become  aware 
of,  or  be  surprised  at,  so  could  never  have  for- 
gotten, —  the  child  in  her  arms.  Her  story  had 
been  plain  to  everyone  she  met,  and  she  had 
received  thousands  of  kindnesses  which  her 
memory  could  not  hold,  though  doubtless  they 
would  all  return  to  her  one  day.  At  length 
she  found  herself  —  whether  intentionally  or 
not  she  could  not  tell  —  in  a  neighbourhood  to 
which  she  had  heard  James  Blatherwick  refer. 

But  here  again  a  blank  stopped  her  backward 
gaze.  Then  suddenly  she  grew  aware,  and 
knew  that  she  was  aware,  of  being  alone  on  a 
wide  moor  in  a  dim  night,  hungry,  with  her 
hungry  child,  to  whom  she  had  given  the  last 
drop  of  nourishment  he  could  draw  from  her, 
wailing  in  her  arms.  Then  once  more  there 
66 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

fell  upon  her  a  hideous  despair.  Worn  out 
with  walking,  and  unable  to  carry  him  a  step 
farther,  she  dropped  him  from  her  helpless 
hands  into  a  bush.  But  he  was  starving,  and 
she  must  get  him  some  milk.  She  went  stag- 
gering about,  looking  under  the  great  stones, 
and  into  the  clumps  of  heather,  for  something 
he  could  drink.  At  last,  I  presume,  she  sank 
on  the  ground,  and  was  for  a  time  insensible; 
anyhow,  when  she  came  to  herself  she  could 
nowhere  find  the  child,  or  even  the  place  where 
she  had  left  him. 

The  same  evening  it  was  that  Maggie  came 
along  with  Andrew  and  found  the  baby,  as  I 
have  already  told.  All  that  night,  and  a  great 
part  of  the  next  day  also,  Isy  went  searching 
about,  with  intervals  of  compelled  repose. 
Imagining  at  length  that  she  had  discovered 
the  very  spot  where  she  left  him,  and  coming 
to  the  conclusion  that  some  wild  beast  had 
come  upon  the  helpless  thing  and  carried  him 
off,  she  rushed  to  a  peat-hag  whence  the  gleam 
of  water  came  to  her  eye,  and  would  there  have 
drowned  herself,  but  was  turned  aside  by  a  man 
who  threw  down  his  flauchter  spade  and  ran  be- 
tween her  and  the  frightful  hole.  He  tried  to 
console  her  with  the  assurance  that  no  child  left 
on  that  moor  could  be  in  other  than  luck's  way, 
and  directed  her  to  the  next  town,  with  a  few 
67 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

halfpence  in  her  pocket,  and  a  threat  of  hanging 
if  she  made  another  attempt  of  the  sort.  A 
long  time  of  wandering  followed,  with  cease- 
less inquiry,  and  alternating  disappointment 
and  expectation.  Every  day  something  occurred 
that  served  to  keep  the  life  in  her;  and  at  last 
she  reached  the  county-town,  where  she  was 
taken  to  the  poorhouse  for  a  time. 


68 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER   VHI 

James  Blatherwick  was  proving  himself  not 
unacceptable  to  the  parish  where  first  he 
opened  his  eyes,  and  was  thought  a  very  rising 
man,  inasmuch  as  his  fluency  was  far  ahead  of 
his  perspicuity.  He  soon  came  to  regard  the 
soutar  as  a  man  far  ahead  of  the  rest  of  his  par- 
ishioners, but  he  saw,  at  the  same  time,  that  he 
was  looked  upon  by  far  the  greater  number  as  a 
wild  fanatic,  if  not  as  a  dangerous  heretic.  But 
while  he  himself  had  little  inclination  to  differ 
with  the  soutar,  he  perceived  almost  at  once 
that  for  his  acceptability  he  had  far  better  differ 
than  agree  with  him,  and  that  at  least,  until 
his  influence  was  more  firmly  established,  it 
would  be  well  to  seem  as  much  of  the  same 
mind  with  his  congregation  as  he  could  without 
loss  to  his  eloquence.  He  must  for  the  present, 
therefore,  use  the  doctrinal  phrases  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  in  his  youth,  or  others  so 
like  that  they  would  be  taken  to  indicate  un- 
changed opinions;  while  for  his  part  he  prac- 
tised a  mental  reservation  in  regard  to  them 
69 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

until  he  should  have  gained  such  authority  as 
justified  him  in  preaching  what  he  pleased 
without  regard  to  consequences.  This  goal  of 
acknowledged  eloquence,  such,  that  is,  as  igno- 
rant and  wordy  people  count  eloquence,  he  had 
already  gained;  but  such  insight  into  truth  as 
even  his  father  and  a  few  other  plain  people  in 
the  neighbourhood  possessed,  he  showed  little 
sign  indeed  of  ever  attaining. 

What  he  saw  in  the  soutar  was  at  first  merely 
negative.  He  had  noted,  indeed,  that  he  used 
almost  none  of  the  set  phrases  of  the  good 
people  in  the  village,  who  devoutly  followed 
the  traditions  of  the  elders;  but  he  knew  little 
as  to  what  it  really  was  that  the  soutar  did  not 
believe,  and  far  less  as  to  what  he  did  believe, 
and  that  with  all  his  heart  and  soul,  John 
MacLear  could  not  utter  the  name  of  God  with- 
out a  confession  of  faith  immeasurably  beyond 
anything  inhabiting  the  consciousness  of  the 
parson;  while  he  soon  began  to  note  the  ab- 
sence of  all  enthusiasm  in  James  with  regard 
to  such  things  on  which  his  very  position  im- 
plied an  absolute  acceptance,  he  would  allude 
to  any  or  all  of  them  as  if  they  were  the  merest 
matters  of  course.  Never  did  his  face  light  up 
when  he  spoke  of  the  Son  of  God,  of  his  death, 
or  of  his  resurrection  from  the  dead;  never  did 
he  make  mention  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  as 
70 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

if  it  were  anything  more  venerable  than  the 
kingdom  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland. 

But  the  soul  of  the  soutar  would  venture  far 
into  the  twilight,  searching  after  the  things  of 
God,  opening  wider  its  eyes  as  the  darkness 
widened  around  them.  On  one  occasion  the 
parson  took  upon  him  to  remonstrate  with  what 
seemed  to  him  the  audacity  of  his  parishioner. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  are  just  going  a  little 
bit  too  far  there,  Mr.  MacLear.^"  he  said. 

"  Ye  mean  ower  far  intill  the  dark,  Mr. 
Blatherwick?" 

"Yes,  that  is  what  I  mean.  You  speculate 
too  boldly." 

"But  in  that  direction,  plainly  the  dark 
grows  thinner,  though  I  grant  ye  there  's  noth- 
ing yet  to  ca'  licht.  That  ye  ken  by  its  ain  fair 
shinin',  and  by  noucht  else." 

"  But  the  human  soul  is  as  apt  to  deceive 
itself  as  is  the  human  eye,  with  a  flash  inside 
it !  "  said  Blatherwick. 

"  Nae  doot ;  but  whan  the  true  licht  comes, 
ye  aye  ken  the  differ!  A  man  may  tak'  the 
dark  for  licht,  but  he  canna  tak'  the  licht  for 
darkness ! " 

"But  there  must  be  something  for  the  light 
to  shine  upon,  else  the  man  sees  nothing,"  said 
the  parson. 

"There's  thoucht,  and  possible  insicht  i'  the 
71 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

man  !  "  said  the  soutar  to  himself.  —  "  Maybe, 
like  the  Ephesians,  ye  haena  yet  fund  oot  gien 
there  be  ony  Holy  Ghost,  sir?"  he  said  to  his 
companion. 

"  No  man  dares  deny  that ! " 

"But  a  man  mayna  ken  't,  though  he  daursna 
deny't!  Nane  but  them  'at  follows  vvhaur  he 
leads,  can  ken  that  he  verily  is." 

"We  have  to  beware  of  private  interpreta- 
tion ! " 

"Gien  a  man  has  nae  word  till  his  ain  sel', 
he  has  nae  word  to  lippen  till.  The  Scripture 
is  but  a  sealed  bulk  till  him;  he  walks  i'  the 
dark.  The  licht  is  neither  pairtit  nor  gethered. 
Gien  a  man  has  licht,  he  has  nane  the  less  that 
there's  anither  present;  gien  there  be  twa  or 
three  prayin'  thegither,  the  fourth  may  hae 
nane  o'  't,  and  ilk  ane  o'  the  three  has  jist  what 
he  's  able  to  receive,  and  he  kens  't  in  himsel' 
as  licht.  Gien  it  comena  to  ilk  ane  o'  them  a', 
it  doesna  come  to  them  a'.  Ilk  ane  maun  hae 
the  revelation  intill  his  ain  sel',  as  gien  there 
wasna  ane  mair  present.  And  gien  it  be  sae, 
which  I'm  no  thinkin'  ye '11  fin'  it  hard  to 
admit,  hoo  are  we  to  win  at  ony  trouth  no  yet 
revealed,  'cep'  we  gang  oot  intill  the  dark  to 
meet  it.?  Ye  maun  caw  canny,  I  admit,  i'  the 
mirk;  but  ye  maun  caw  gien  ye  wad  win  at 
onything ! " 

72 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  But  suppose  you  know  enough  to  keep  you 
going,  and  do  not  care  to  venture  into  the 
dark?" 

"  Gien  a  man  hauds  on  practeesin'  what  he 
kens,  the  hunger  'ill  wauk  in  him  efter  some- 
thing mair.  I  'm  thinkin'  the  angels  desired 
lang  afore  they  could  see  intill  certain  things 
they  want  it  to  ken  aboot,  but  ye  may  be  sure 
they  warna  left  withoot  as  muckle  licht  as 
would  serve  honest  fowk  to  baud  them  gaein' 
or  desirin'  ! " 

"Suppose  they  couldn't  tell  whether  what 
they  saw  was  true  light  or  not?" 

"They  had  to  fa'  back  upo'  the  wull  o'  the 
great  Licht;  we  ken  He  wants  us  a'  to  see  as 
he  does  himsel'.  If  ye  carena  to  seek  that 
sicht,  ye  're  jist  naething  and  naegait,  and  are 
in  sore  need  o'  sharp  discipleen. " 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  follow  you  quite.  The 
fact  is,  I  have  been  for  a  long  time  occupied  so 
closely  with  the  Bible  history,  and  the  new  dis- 
coveries that  bear  testimony  to  the  same,  that 
I  've  had  but  little  time  to  give  to  metaphysics." 

"And  what 's  the  guid  o'  history,  or  sic  meta- 
pheesics  as  is  the  vera  sowl  o'  history,  but  to 
help  ye  to  see  Christ  wi'  yer  understan'in*  as 
weel  as  wi'  yer  hert?  and  what's  the  guid  o* 
seein'  Christ  but  sae  to  see  God  wi'  yer  hert 
and  yer  understan'in'  also,  and  ken  that  yer 
73 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

seein'  him,  and  sae  to  receive  him  intill  yer 
vera  natur?  Ye  min'  hoo  the  Lord  said  that 
nane  could  ken  his  Father,  but  him  to  whom 
the  Son  would  reveal  him?  Man,  sir,  it's 
time  ye  had  a  glimp'  o'  that !  Ye  ken  naething 
till  ye  ken  God;  and  he  's  the  only  ane  a  man 
can  truly  and  really  ken." 

"Well,  you're  a  long  way  ahead  of  me,  and 
for  the  present  I  'm  afraid  there  's  nothing  for 
it  but  to  say  good-night  to  you! " 

And  therewith  the  minister  departed. 

"Lord,"  said  the  soutar,  as  he  sat  on  his 
stool,  and  guided  his  awl  through  sole  and  welt 
and  upper  of  the  shoe  on  his  last,  "there's 
surely  something  workin'  i'  the  young  man! 
Surely  he  canna  be  that  far  frae  waukin'  up  to 
ken  that  he  kens  naething!  Lord,  pu'  doon 
the  dyke  o'  learnin'  and  self -righteousness  that 
he  canna  see  ower  to  thee  upo'  the  ither  side 
o'  't.  Lord,  sen'  him  the  open  grace  o'  eyes, 
that  he  may  see  whaur  and  what  he  is,  and  cry 
oot  wi'  the  lave  o'  us,  puir  blin'  bodies,  that 
hae  begun  to  see,  to  him  that  hasna,  *  Awauk, 
thoo  that  sleepest  and  get  oot  o'  thy  grave, 
that  thoo  may  see  the  licht  o'  the  Father  i'  the 
face  o'  the  Son.'  " 

But  the  minister  went  away  trying  to  classify 
the  soutar,  whom  he  thought  to  place  in  some 
certain  sect  of  middle-age  mystics.  Thence- 
74 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

forward,  nevertheless,  something  which  he  did 
not  know  seemed  to  haunt  the  man.  That  part 
of  him  which  he  called  his  religious  sense 
appeared  to  know  something  of  which  he  him- 
self knew  nothing !  Faithlessly  as  he  had  be- 
haved to  Isy,  Blatherwick  was  not  consciously, 
that  is,  with  the  least  purpose  of  intent,  a  de- 
ceitful man ;  he  had  always  cherished  a  strong 
faith  in  his  own  honour.  But  faith  in  a  thing, 
in  an  idea,  in  a  notion,  is  no  proof,  or  even 
sign,  that  the  thing  exists,  especially  when  it 
has  its  root  in  a  man's  thought  of  himself,  in  a 
man's  presentation  to  himself  of  his  own  re- 
flected self.  This  man  who  thought  so  much 
of  his  honour  was  in  truth  a  moral  unreality,  a 
cowardly  fellow,  a  sneak  who,  in  the  hope  that 
no  consequences  would  overtake  him,  carried 
himself  as  beyond  reproof.  How  should  such 
a  one  ever  have  the  power  of  spiritual  vision 
developed  in  him.-*  How  should  such  a  one 
ever  see  God,  —  ever  exist  in  the  same  region  in 
which  the  soutar  had  long  taken  up  his  abode  .-• 
Still,  there  was  this  much  reality  in  him,  and 
he  had  made  this  much  progress,  that,  holding 
fast  by  his  resolve  henceforth  no  more  to  slide, 
he  had  also  a  dim  suspicion  of  something  he 
had  not  seen,  but  which  he  might  become  able 
to  see,  and  was  half  resolved  to  think  and  read 
for  the  future  with  the  intent  to  find  out  what 
75 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

this  strange  man  knew,  if,  indeed,  he  did  know 
anything  more  than  everybody  else.  Unable, 
however,  to  be  sure  of  anything,  let  him  try  as 
hard  as  he  might,  he  soon  became  weary  of  the 
effort,  and  sank  back  into  self-satisfied  blind 
sleep. 


76 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER  IX 

But  out  of  this  quiescence  a  pang  from  the  past 
suddenly  one  morning  awaked  him,  and  in  his 
pain,  almost  without  consciousness  of  a  volition, 
he  found  himself  at  the  soutar's  door.  Maggie 
opened  it  to  him  with  the  baby  in  her  arms.  She 
had  just  been  having  a  game  with  the  child ;  her 
face  was  in  a  glow,  her  hair  tossed  about,  and  her 
dark  eyes  flashing  with  excitement.  To  Blather- 
wick,  without  any  great  natural  interest  in  life, 
and  in  the  net  of  a  trouble  which  caused  him 
no  immediate  apprehension,  and  was  of  no 
absorbing  interest,  the  poor  girl,  of  so  little 
account  in  the  world,  and  so  far  below  him,  as  he 
took  for  granted,  somehow  affected  him  at  the 
moment  as  beautiful  ;  and,  indeed,  she  was 
beautiful,  far  more  beautiful  than  he  was  yet 
able  to  appreciate.  Besides,  it  was  not  long 
since  he  had  been  refused  by  another;  and  just 
at  such  a  time,  as  Shakspere  must  have  re- 
marked, a  man  is  readiest  to  fall  in  love 
afresh.  Trouble  then,  lack  of  interest,  and 
late  repulse  had  laid  James's  heart,  such  as  it 
was,  unexpectedly  open  to  assault  from  a 
77 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

new  quarter  threatening  no  danger.  Painfully 
warned  by  late  experience  against  a  second 
time  encouraging  personal  relations  with  a 
poor  girl  of  lowly  origin,  he  could  not  help 
being  interested  in  her,  both  because  of  her 
beauty  and  because  of  her  evident  disciple- 
ship  to  her  father,  to  whom  the  young  parson 
had  not  infrequently  been  listening  of  late,  with 
Maggie  silently  at  work  beside  him.  But  he  had 
not  as  yet  taken  sufficient  interest  in  either  to 
ask  who  the  child  was  whom  she  was  nursing 
so  tenderly,  and  whom  he  had  once  or  twice 
seen  her  ministering  to  with  such  assiduity. 

"  That 's  a  very  fine  baby  !  "  he  said,  forgetting 
to  inquire  after  her  father,  who  had  been  a  trifle 
ailing.     "  Whose  is  he?" 

"  Mine,  sir,"  answered  Maggie,  with  some 
triumph,  but  a  little  abruptly,  —  for  like  a  mother 
she  was  ready  to  resent  ignorance  with  regard  to 
her  treasure. 

"  Oh,  indeed  ;  I  did  not  know,"  answered  the 
parson,  bewildered. 

"  At  least,"  Maggie  resumed  a  little  hurriedly, 
and  stopped  —  whereupon  the  parson  would  at 
once  have  concluded,  except  for  her  extreme 
youth,  that  she  was  herself  the  mother  of  the 
child.  Now  he  feared  to  prosecute  the  inquiry 
without  first  seeking  enlightenment  from  his 
housekeeper. 

78 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

"  Is  your  father  in  the  house,  Maggie?"  he 
asked,  and  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  went 
on,  "  It  is  much  too  heavy  for  you  to  carry 
about." 

"  No  ae  bit !  "  she  rejoined,  as  if  he  meant  to 
disparage  her  strength ;  "  and  who 's  to  carry 
him  but  me?  " 

Huddling  the  child  to  her  bosom,  she  contin- 
ued to  address  him,  — 

"  And  would  he  hae  my  pet  gang  traivellin' 
the  warl'  upo'  thae  twa  bonny  wee  legs  o'  his  ain, 
wantin'  the  wings  he  left  ahint  him  whan  he 
cam'?  They  maun  grow  a  heap  stronger  first. 
It'll  come  a'  in  guid  time!  His  ain  mammie  's 
Strang  eneuch  to  carry  him  gien  he  war  twice 
the  size !  Noo,  come  but  the  hoose  and  see 
daddy." 

This  also  was  addressed  to  the  child,  with 
whom  she  went  at  once  to  the  kitchen,  fol- 
lowed by  the  minister,  growing  more  and  more 
confused. 

There  sat  her  father  as  usual,  hands  and  knees 
in  skilful  consort  of  labour. 

"Weel,  minister,  hoo  are  ye  the  day?  Is  the 
yerd  ony  lichter  upo'  the  tap  o'  ye?"  said  the 
soutar,  with  a  smile  that  was  almost  pawky. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  Mr.  MacLear." 

"Na,  yecanna.     Gien  ye  could,  ye  wouldna 
be  sae  comfortable  as  ye  seem." 
79 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  I  cannot  think,  Mr.  MacLear,  why  you  seem 
rude  to  me." 

"  Ye  *re  richt,  sir;  seem  is  the  proper  word. 
But  gien  ye  saw  the  hoose  on  fire  aboot  him  ye 
maybe  wouldna  be  polite  yersel'  tae  a  man  in  a 
drucken  sleep." 

"  Dare  you  imply  that  I  have  been  drinking?" 
cried  the  parson. 

"  Not  for  a  single  moment,  sir ;  and  I  beg 
yer  pardon  for  raisin'  the  simile  thouchtlessly ; 
I  dinna  believe  ye  war  ever  ance  owertaen  wi' 
drink  in  a'  yer  life,  sir !  And  maybe  I  shouldna 
be  sae  ready  to  speyk  in  parables,  for  as  no 
a'body  that  can  or  wull  un'erstan'  them.  But 
ye  canna  hae  forgotten  that  cry  o'  the  Apostle 
o'  the  Gentiles,  — '  Wauk  up,  thoo  that  sleepest ! ' 
And  divna  ye  min'  whaur  the  man  he  cried  till 
was  sleeping?  It  was  whaur  ane  micht  think 
the  chance  o'  his  hearin'  was  but  sma' !  But 
what's  impossible,  ye  ken,  is  possible,  and  vera 
possible,  wi'  God.  Even  the  deid  wauk  whan 
the  trumpet  blast  batters  at  their  lugs !  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  the  Apostle  makes  al- 
lusion in  that  passage  to  the  condition  of  the 
Gentile  nations.  But  it  may  apply  as  well, 
doubtless,  to  the  conversion  of  every  unbelieving 
man  of  being  converted  from  the  error  of  his 
ways." 

"  Weel,  are  ye  convertit,  sir?  Or  are  ye  but 
80 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

turnin',  noo  and  than,  frae  side  to  side  o'  yer 
coffin, — seekin'  a  sleepin'  assurance  that  ye  're 
waukin'?" 

"  You  are  plain-spoken,  anyway !  "  said  the 
minister,  rising. 

"  Maybe  I  am  at  last,  sir !  And  maybe  I  hae 
been  ower  lang  in  comin'  to  the  plainness ! 
Maybe  I  was  ower-feart  for  yer  coontin'  me  — 
or,  maybe,  for  bein'  ill-fashiont  —  what  ye  ca' 
rude  !  " 

The  parson  was  half-way  to  the  door,  for  he 
was  angry  —  which  can  hardly  surprise  any 
reader.  But,  with  the  latch  in  his  hand,  he 
turned.  There,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  with 
the  child  in  her  arms,  stood  the  beautiful  Mag- 
gie, as  if  in  act  to  follow  him.  He  had  forgotten 
them.     Both  were  staring  after  him. 

"  Dinna  anger  him,  father,"  said  Maggie. 
"  Maybe  he  disna  ken  better  !  " 

"  VVeel  ken  I,  my  dautie,  that  he  disna  ken 
better.  But  I  canna  help  thinkin'  he  's  maybe 
no  that  faur  frae  the  waukin'.  God  grant  I  be 
richt  aboot  that !  Eh,  gien  he  would  but  wauk 
up,  what  a  man  he  would  mak' !  He  kens  a 
heap  —  but  what 's  that  whan  a  man  has  no 
licht!" 

"  I  certainly  do  not  see  things  as  you  would 
have  me  believe  you  saw  them ;  and  you  are 
hardly  capable  of  persuading  me,  I  fear !  "  re- 
6  8i 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

marked  Blathcrwick,  with  the  angry  flush  again 
on  his  face ;  it  had  for  a  moment  been  replaced 
with  pallor. 

Here  the  baby  seemed  to  have  recognised 
the  unsympathetic  in  the  tone  of  the  conversa- 
tion, for  his  little  face,  which  had  for  a  moment 
or  two  been  slowly  changing,  at  length  pulled 
down  its  lovely  little  mouth,  and  sent  from  it  a 
dread  and  potent  cry.  Clasping  him  close  to 
her  bosom,  Maggie  ran  from  the  room  with 
him,  jostling  James  in  the  doorway  as  he  stood 
aside  to  let  her  pass. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  spoke  without  due  regard  to 
the  infant's  presence,  and  frightened  the  little 
man,"  he  said. 

"  'Deed,  sir,  it  may  ha'  been  you,  or  it  may  ha' 
been  me,"  rejoined  the  soutar.  "  It 's  a  thing 
I  'm  sair  to  blame  in,  —  that  whan  I  'm  in  richt 
earnest,  I  'm  aye  ower-ready  to  speyk  as  gien 
I  was  angert.  I  'm  feart  it  indicates  a  fac'  — 
namely,  that  I  am  angert!  Sir,  I  humbly  beg 
yer  pardon." 

"  As  humbly  I  beg  yours,"  returned  the  par- 
son;  "  I  was  in  the  wrong." 

The  heart  of  the  old  man  was  drawn  afresh  to 
the  youth.  He  laid  aside  his  shoe,  and,  turning 
on  his  stool,  took  James's  hand  in  both  of  his, 
and  said  solemnly  and  lovingly,  — 

"  This  moment  I  would  willingly  die,  sir,  so 
82 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

be  that  thereby   the    licht  o'  that    uprising   o' 
which  we  spak  micht  brak  throuw  upon  ye !  " 

"  I  believe  you,  sir,"  answered  James,  "  but," 
he  went  on  with  an  attempt  at  humour,  "  it 
would  n't  be  so  much  for  you  to  do,  after  all, 
seeing  you  would  straightway  find  yourself  in  a 
better  place !  " 

"  Maybe  whaur  the  penitent  thief  sat,  some 
auchteen  hunner  year  ago,  waiting  to  be  called 
up  higher  !  "  rejoined  the  soutar,  with  a  watery 
smile. 

The  parson  opened  the  door,  and  went  home 
—  where  his  knees  found  their  way  to  the 
carpet. 

From  that  day  Blatherwick  began  to  go  oftener 
to  the  soutar's,  and  before  long  went  almost 
every  other  day,  for  at  least  a  few  minutes ;  and 
on  such  occasions  had  generally  a  short  inter- 
view with  Maggie  and  the  baby,  in  both  of 
whom,  having  heard  from  the  soutar  the  story 
of  the  child,  he  took  a  growing  interest. 

"  You  seem  to  love  him  as  if  he  were  your 
own,  Maggie !  "  he  said  one  morning  to  the 
girl. 

"And  isna  he  my  ain?  Didna  God  himsel' 
gie  me  the  bairn  intill  my  vera  airms  —  or  a' 
but?"  she  rejoined. 

"  Suppose  he  were  to  die !  "   suggested  the 
minister.     "  Such  children  often  do." 
83 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  I  needna  think  aboot  that,"  she  answered. 
"  I  would  just  hae  to  say,  as  mony  ane  has  had 
to  say  afore  me :  '  The  Lord  gave,'  —  ye  ken  the 
rest,  sir." 

Day  by  day  Maggie  grew  more  beautiful  in 
the  minister's  eyes,  until  at  last  he  was  not 
only  ready  to  say  that  he  loved  her,  but  for 
her  sake  to  disregard  all  worldly  and  ambitious 
considerations. 


84 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER   X 

On  the  morning  of  a  Saturday,  therefore,  which 
day  of  the  week  he  ahvays  made  a  holiday,  he 
resolved  to  let  her  know  without  delay  that  he 
loved  her;  and  he  was  the  more  determined, 
because  on  the  next  day  he  had  to  preach  for  a 
brother  clergyman  at  Deemouth,  and  felt  that, 
with  this  on  his  mind,  he  would  not  have  it  clear 
enough  to  do  well  in  the  pulpit.  But  neither 
disappointment  nor  new  love  had  yet  served  to 
free  him  from  vanity  or  arrogance.  Although 
he  had  been  for  some  time  cherishing  the  re- 
solve, he  still  regarded  his  approaching  decla- 
ration as  conferring  a  great  honour  as  well  as 
favour  upon  the  damsel  of  low  estate ;  for  was 
she  not  about  to  share  in  his  growing  distinc- 
tion? In  his  late  invitation  to  a  lady  to  descend 
a  little  from  her  social  pedestal,  he  had  believed 
himself  to  offer  her  a  greater  than  proportion- 
ate counter-elevation,  and  in  his  present  suit  to 
Maggie  he  was  unable  to  conceive  the  possibil- 
ity of  failure.  When  she  appeared  she  would 
have  shown  him  into  the  kitchen,  but  he  took 
her  by  the  arm  and  led  her  to  the  ben-end, 
85 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

where  at  once  he  began  his  intended  speech. 
Scarce  had  she  gathered  his  meaning,  however, 
when  he  was  checked  by  the  startled  look  upon 
her  face. 

"And  what  am  I  to  do  wi'  my  bairn?"  she 
asked  instantly,  without  sign  of  hesitation  or 
perplexity,  and  smiled  on  the  little  one  as  at 
some  absurdity  in  her  arms  rather  than  in  her 
mind. 

But  now  the  minister  was  sufficiently  in  love 
to  disregard  these  unexpected  indications.  His 
pride  was  indeed  a  little  hurt,  —  and  hurt  in  that 
quarter  could  not  be  less  than  a  serious  one  to 
him ;  but  he  resisted  any  show  of  it,  reflecting 
that  the  feeling  she  manifested  was  not  altogether 
an  unnatural  one. 

"  Oh,  we  shall  easily  find  some  experienced 
mother,"  he  answered,  "  who  will  understand 
better  than  you  how  to  take  care  of  him  !  " 

"  Na,  na !  "  she  answered.  "  I  hae  baith  a 
father  and  a  wean  to  luik  efter,  and  that 's  aboot 
as  muckle  as  I  '11  ever  be  up  till !  " 

So  saying,  she  rose  and  carried  the  little  one 
up  the  stair  to  the  room  her  father  now  occu- 
pied, nor  cast  a  single  glance  of  farewell  in  the 
direction  of  her  lover. 

And  now  at  last  he  was  not  a  little  astonished. 
Did  it,  could  it,  mean  that  she  did  not  appreciate 
his  offer,  and  could  not  listen  to  him?  Impos- 
86 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

sible  !  Her  devotion  to  the  child  she  had  picked 
up  was  indeed  absurdly  engrossing,  but  that 
would  come  all  right  very  soon.  He  need  not 
fear  such  a  rivalry  as  that,  however  unpleasant 
it  might  be  at  the  moment.  That  little  vagrant, 
indeed,  from  no  one  could  tell  where,  to  come 
between  him  and  the  girl  he  would  honour  by 
making  his  wife ! 

He  glanced  round  him  ;  the  room  looked 
very  empty.  He  heard  her  oft  interrupted  step 
through  the  thin  floor  that  divided  them  ;  she 
was  lavishing  caresses  on  the  insensate  little 
animal !  He  caught  up  his  hat,  and  with  a 
flushed  face  of  annoyance  went  straight  to  the 
soutar  where  he  sat  at  work. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  you,  Mr.  MacLear,  if  you 
will  give  me  your  daughter  to  be  my  wife,"  he 
said. 

"  Ow,  sae  that 's  it !  "  returned  the  soutar,  with- 
out raising  his  eyes  from  his  occupation. 

"You  have  no  objection,  I  hope?"  continued 
the  minister,  finding  he  did  not  go  on. 

"What  says  she  hersel'?  Ye  comena  to  me 
first,  I  reckon  ! " 

"  She  said,  or  implied  at  least,  that  she  could 
not  leave  the  child.  But  she  cannot  mean 
that!" 

"  And  what  for  no?  I  hae  nae  need  to  mak' 
objections." 

87 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"But  if  she  withdraw  that  one  —  as  I  hope 
soon  to  persuade  her  to  do?" 

"Then  I  should  hae  objections  —  mair  nor 
ane — to  put  to  the  fore!" 

"  You  surprise  me  !  Is  not  a  woman  to  leave 
father  and  mother,  and  cleave  to  her  husband? " 

"  Ow,  ay  —  sae  be  the  woman  is  a  wife  !  Than 
lat  nane  sun'er  them! — But  there's  anither 
saying,  sir,  that  I  doobt  may  hae  something  to 
dee  wi'  Maggie's  answer." 

"  And  what,  pray,  may  that  be?  " 

"  That  man  or  woman  must  leave  father  and 
mother,  wife  and  child,  for  the  sake  o'  the  Son 
o'  Man." 

"  You  surely  are  not  papist  enough  to  think 
that  means  that  a  minister  is  not  to  marry?" 

"Not  at  all,  sir;  but  I  doobt  that's  what  it'll 
come  to  wi'  Maggie." 

"You  mean  that  she  will  not  marry?" 

"  I  mean  that  she  winna  merry  j^ou,  sir." 

"  But  just  think  how  much  more  she  would  be 
able  to  do  for  Christ  as  the  minister's  wife  ! " 

"  I  'm  'maist  convinced  she  would  coont  mer- 
ryin'  you  tantamount  to  refusin'  to  lea'  a'  for  the 
Son  o'  Man." 

"And  why  should  she  think  that?  " 

"  Because,  sae  far  as  I  see,  she  canna  think 
that  j<?  hae  left  a'  for  /nm." 

"  Ah,  that  is  what  you  have  been  teaching 
88 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

her!     She  does  not  say  that  of  herself!     You 
have  not  left  her  free  to  choose ! " 

"  The  question  never  cam'  up  atween  's.  But 
she's  perfectly  free  to  wyle  her  ain  gait  —  and 
she  kens  she  is.  Ye  dinna  seem  to  think  it 
possible  she  sud  tak'  his  vvuU  raither  nor  yours, 
—  that  the  love  o'  Christ  should  constrain  her 
ower  and  ayont  the  love  o'  Jeames  Bletherwick ! 
We  hae  conversed  aboot  ye,  sir,  but  niver 
differed  !  " 

"But  allowing  us  —  you  and  me  —  to  be  of 
different  opinions  on  some  points,  must  that  be 
a  reason  why  she  and  I  should  not  love  one 
another? " 

"  No  reason  whatever,  sir  —  if  ye  can  and  do  : 
that  point  would  be  already  settled.  But  ye 
winna  get  Maggie  to  merry  ye  sae  lang  as  she 
disna  believe  ye  lo'e  her  Lord  as  weel  as  she  lo'es 
him  hersel'.  It 's  no  a  common  love  that  Maggie 
beirs  to  her  Lord ;  and  gien  ye  lo'ed  her  wi'  a 
luve  worthy  o'  her,  ye  would  see  that !  " 

"  But  at  least  ye  will  promise  me  not  to  inter- 
fere?" 

"  I  '11  promise  ye  naething,  sir,  excep'  to  do 
my  duty  by  her,  —  sae  far  as  I  understan'  what 
that  duty  is.  Gien  I  thoucht  —  which  the  God 
o'  my  life  forbid  !  —  that  Maggie  didna  lo'e  him 
as  I  lo'e  him  —  excep',  as  I  houp,  and  am  free 
to  think,  she  lo'es  him  better  nor  I  can  yet  —  I 


SALTED   WITH  FIRE 

would  gang  upo'  my  auld  knees  till  her,  to 
entreat  her  to  love  him  vvi'  a'  her  heart  and  sovvl 
and  stren'th  and  min' ;  an'  whan  I  had  done 
that,  she  micht  merry  wha  she  would,  —  hang- 
man or  minister  :  no  a  word  would  I  say  !  For 
trouble  she  maun  hae,  and  trouble  she  wull  get 
—  I  thank  my  God,  who  givcth  to  all  men  liber- 
ally and  upbraideth  not !  " 

"  Th6n  I  am  free  to  do  my  best  to  win  her?  " 

"Ye  are,  sir;  and  mair,  —  afore  the  morn's 
mornin',  I  winna  pass  ae  word  wi'  her  upo'  the 
subject." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  returned  the  minister,  and 
took  his  leave. 

"  A  fine  lad  !  a  fine  lad !  "  said  the  soutar 
aloud  to  himself,  as  he  resumed  the  work  for 
a  moment  interrupted,  "but  no  clear,  —  no 
crystal-clear,  —  no  clear  like  the  Son  o'  Man 
himsel' !  " 

He  looked  up,  and  saw  his  daughter  in  the 
doorway. 

"  No  a  word,  lassie  !  "  he  cried.  "  I  'm  no  for 
ye  this  meenute.  No  a  word  to  me  aboot  ony- 
thing  or  onybody  the  day  —  'cep'  it  be  absolute 
necessar' !  " 

"  As  ye  wull,  father,"  rejoined  Maggie.  "  I  'm 
gaein'  oot  to  seek  auld  Eppie ;  she  was  intill  the 
baker's  shop  a  meenute  ago.  The  bairnie  's 
asleep." 

90 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  Vera  weel !  gien  I  hear  him,  I 's  atten'  till 
him,"  said  the  soutar. 

"Thank  ye,  father!"  she  returned,  and  left 
the  house. 

But  the  minister,  having  to  start  that  same 
afternoon  for  Deemouth,  and  feeling  it  impos- 
sible to  preach  at  his  case,  things  remaining  as 
they  were,  had  been  watching  the  soutar's  door, 
and  saw  it  open  and  Maggie  appear.  For  a 
moment  he  flattered  himself  she  was  coming 
to  look  for  him,  to  say  she  was  sorry  for  her 
behaviour  to  him.  But  her  start  when  first  she 
became  aware  of  his  presence  did  not  fail, 
notwithstanding  his  conceit,  to  satisfy  him  that 
such  was  not  her  intent.  He  made  haste  to 
explain. 

"  I  've  been  waiting  all  this  time  on  the 
chance  of  seeing  you,  Margaret !  "  he  said.  "  I 
am  starting  within  an  hour  or  so  for  Deemouth, 
and  could  not  bear  to  go  without  first  assuring 
you  that  your  father  has  no  objection  to  my 
saying  what  I  please  to  you,  only  he  means 
to  have  a  talk  with  you  to-morrow  morning, 
and  as  I  cannot  possibly  get  back  from  Dee- 
mouth before  Monday,  I  must  express  the  hope 
now  that  he  will  not  succeed  in  persuading  you 
to  doubt  the  reality  of  my  love.  I  admire  your 
father  more  than  I  can  tell  you,  but  he  seems 
to  hold  the  affections  God  has  given  us  of  small 
91 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

account  compared  with  his  judgment  concern- 
ing the  strength  and  reality  of  them." 

"  Did  he  no  say  I  was  free  to  do  what  I 
hked?"   rejoined    Maggie,   rather   sharply. 

"  Yes ;   he  did  say  something  to  that  effect." 

"  Then,  for  mysel'  and  i'  the  name  o'  my 
father,  I  tell  ye,  Maister  Bletherwick,  I  dinna 
care  to  see  ye  again  —  though  I  'm  sure  ye '11 
aye  be  welcome  to  my  father,  wha  's  taen  a  great 
anxiety  aboot  ye." 

"Do  you  mean  what  you  say,  Margaret?" 
rejoined  the  minister,  in  a  voice  that  betrayed 
not  a  little  genuine  emotion. 

"  I  do  mean  it,"  she  answered. 

"  If  1  tell  you  that  I  am  both  ready  and  will- 
ing to  take  the  child,  and  bring  him  up  as  my 
own?  " 

"  He  wouldna  be  yer  ain  !  " 

"  Quite  as  much  as  yours  !  " 

"Hardly,"  she  returned,  with  a  curious  little 
laugh.  "  But,  as  I  daresay  my  father  told  you, 
I  do  not,  I  cannot  believe  that  ye  lo'e  God  wi' 
a*  yer  hert." 

"  But  dare  you  say  that  for  yourself,  Mar- 
garet?" 

"No;  but  I  do  want  to  love  God   as  Jesus 

says   we   must   love   him.     Besides,   you    have 

made  it  your  professed  business  to  teach  people 

man's  chief  end,  which  is  to  love  God  like  that. 

92 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

Mr.  Blatherwick,  are  ye  a  rael  Christian,  or  are 
ye  a  hypocrite?  I  wad  Hke  to  ken.  But  I  hae 
nae  richt  to  question  ye,  for  I  dinna  believe  ye 
ken  yersel' !  " 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  do  not.  But  I  see  there 
is  no  occasion  to  say  more  ! " 

"Na,  nane,"  answered  Maggie. 

He  lifted  his  hat,  and  turned  away  to  the 
coach  office.     Maggie  went  to  look  for  Eppie. 


93 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER  XI 

It  would  be  difficult  to  represent  the  condi- 
tion of  mind  in  which  Blatherwick  sat  on  the 
box-seat  of  the  Defiance  coach  that  evening, 
behind  four  grey  thoroughbreds  carrying  him 
at  the  rate  of  ten  miles  an  hour  toward  Dee- 
mouth.  Hurt  pride,  indignation,  and  a  certain 
mild  revenge  in  contemplating  Maggie's  disap- 
pointment when  at  length  she  should  become 
aware  of  the  distinction  he  had  gained  and  she 
had  lost,  were  its  main  components.  He  never 
noted  a  feature  of  the  rather  tame  scenery  that 
went  hurrying  by  him,  and  yet  the  time  did  not 
seem  to  pass  at  all  slowly :  he  was  astonished 
when  the  coach  stopped,  and  he  found  his 
journey   at  an  end. 

He  descended  from  his  seat  rather  cramped 
and  stiff,  and,  as  it  was  still  early,  started  for  a 
stroll  about  the  streets  to  stretch  himself,  and 
see  what  was  going  on,  glad  he  had  not  to 
preach  in  the  morning,  and  would  have  a  part 
of  the  day  to  go  over  his  sermon  again  in  that 
dreary  memory  of  his.  The  streets  were  bril- 
liant with  gas,  for  Saturday  was  always  a  sort 
94 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

of  market-night  there,  and  at  that  moment  were 
crowded  with  girls  going  home,  rollicking  ancj 
merry,  from  a  paper-mill  at  the  close  of  a 
week's  labour.  To  Blatherwick,  who  had  very 
little  sympathy  with  gladness  of  any  sort,  the 
sight  only  called  up  by  contrast  the  very  differ- 
ent scenes  on  which  his  eyes  would  look  down 
the  next  evening  from  the  vantage  coigne  of 
the  pulpit,  in  a  church  filled  with  a  respectable 
congregation,  —  to  which  he  would  be  setting 
forth  the  results  of  certain  late  geographical 
discoveries  and  local  identifications,  not  know- 
ing that  yet  later  discoveries  had  rendered 
everything  he  was  about  to  say  more  than 
doubtful. 

But  as,  while  sunk  in  a  not  very  profound 
reverie,  he  was  turning  the  corner  of  a  narrow 
wynd,  he  was  all  but  knocked  down  by  a  girl 
whom  another  in  the  crowd  had  pushed  violently 
against  him.  The  former,  recoiling  from  the 
impact,  and  unable  to  recover  her  equilibrium, 
fell  helplessly  prostrate  on  the  granite  pavement, 
and  lay  there  motionless.  Annoyed  and  half 
angry,  he  was  on  the  point  of  walking  on,  heed- 
less of  the  accident,  when  something  in  the  pale 
face  among  the  coarse  and  shapeless  shoes  that 
had  already  begun  to  gather  thick  around  it, 
arrested  him  with  a  strong  suggestion  of  some 
one  he  had  once  known.  But  the  same  moment 
95 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

the  crowd  that  stooped  over  her  hid  her  from 
his  view ;  and,  shocked  to  be  reminded  of  Isy 
in  such  an  assemblage,  he  turned  resolutely 
away,  and,  seeking  refuge  in  the  many  chances 
against  its  being  she,  walked  steadily  on.  When 
he  looked  round  again  ere  crossing  the  street, 
the  crowd  had  vanished,  and  the  pavement  was 
all  but  empty.  He  spoke  to  a  policeman  who 
just  then  came  up,  but  he  had  seen  nolliing  of 
the  occurrence,  and  remarked  only  that  they 
were  a  rough  lot  of  girls  at  the  paper-mills. 

A  moment  more  and  his  mind  was  busy  with 
a  passage  in  his  sermon  which  seemed  about  to 
escape  his  memory:  it  was  still  as  impossible 
for  him  to  talk  freely  about  the  things  a  minister 
is  supposed  to  love  best,  as  it  had  been  when  he 
began  to  preach.  It  was  not,  certainly,  out  of 
the  fulness  of  the  heart  that  Jiis  mouth  ever 
spoke. 

He  went  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Robertson,  the 
friend  he  had  come  to  assist,  had  supper,  retired 
early,  and  in  the  morning  went  to  his  friend's 
church.  When  the  evening  came,  he  climbed  to 
the  pulpit,  and  soon  appeared  engrossed  in  its 
rites.  But  while  he  seemed  to  be  pouring  out 
his  soul  in  the  long  extempore  prayer,  he  opened 
his  eyes  as  if  suddenly  compelled,  and  that 
moment  saw,  in  the  front  of  the  gallery  before 
him,  a  face  he  could  not  doubt  to  be  the  face  of 
96 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

Isy.  Her  gaze  was  fixed  upon  him.  He  saw 
her  shiver,  and  knew  that  she  saw  and  knew  him. 
He  felt  himself  grow  blind.  His  head  swam, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  some  force  bent  his  body 
down  sideways  from  her.  Such  was  his  self- 
possession,  however,  that  he  went  on  with  his 
prayer,  if  that  could  in  any  sense  be  prayer  in 
which  he  knew  neither  word  he  uttered,  thing  he 
thought,  nor  feeling  he  felt.  With  the  king  in 
Hamlet,  he  might  have  said,  — 

"  My  words  fly  up,  my  thoughts  remain  below : 
Words  without  thoughts  never  to  heaven  go  !  " 

But  while  yet  speaking,  and  holding  his  eyes  fast 
closed  that  he  might  not  see  her  again,  his  con- 
sciousness all  at  once  returned,  —  it  seemed  to 
him  with  a  mighty  effort  of  the  will,  and  upon 
that  he  afterward  prided  himself.  Thereupon  he 
became  aware  of  his  thoughts  and  words,  and  was 
able  to  control  his  actions  and  speech.  But  all  the 
while  he  "  conducted  "  the  rest  of  the  "  service," 
he  was  constantly  aware  of  the  figure  of  Isy 
before  him  with  its  gaze  fixed  motionless  upon 
him,  although  he  did  not  again  look  at  her,  until 
he  began  to  wonder  vaguely  whether  it  might 
not  be  that  she  was  dead,  and  come  back  only 
to  his  mind,  —  not  from  the  grave,  but  from  the 
quite  as  mysterious  world  of  the  memory,  a 
thought-spectre.  But  at  last  he  thought  she 
7  97 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

must  indeed  be  alive,  for  when,  at  the  close  of 
the  sermon,  the  people  stood  up  to  sing, 
she  rose  with  them,  and  the  half-unconscious 
preacher  sat  down  exhausted  with  emotion,  con- 
flict, and  with  effort.  When  he  rose  again  for 
the  benediction,  she  was  gone;  and  once  more 
he  took  refuge  in  the  doubt  whether  she  had 
indeed  been  present. 

When  the  lady  of  the  house  had  retired,  and 
James  was  sitting  with  his  host  over  his  one 
tumbler  of  toddy  only  to  keep  him  company, 
for  he  never  took  whisky  himself,  there  came 
a  knock  to  the  door.  Mr.  Robertson  went  to 
open  it,  and  James's  heart  gave  a  despairing 
leap,  as  if  to  break  from  its  prison.  But  in  a 
few  moments  the  host  returned,  saying  it  was  a 
policeman  who  had  knocked  to  let  him  know 
that  a  woman  was  lying  drunk  at  the  bottom  of 
his  doorsteps,  and  to  inquire  what  he  would  have 
him  do  with  her. 

"  I  told  him,"  said  Mr.  Robertson,  "  to  take 
the  poor  creature  to  the  station,  and  in  the 
morning  I  would  see  if  I  could  do  anything  for 
her.  When  they  're  ill  the  next  day,  you  see," 
he  added,  "  one  may  have  a  sort  of  chance  with 
them;   but  it  is  seldom  of  any  use." 

A  horrible  suspicion  that  it  was  Isy  herself 
had  laid  hold  of  Blatherwick ;  and  for  a  mo- 
ment he  was  in  the  mind  to  follow  the  men  to 
98 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

the  station ;  but  then  his  friend  was  sure  to  go 
with  him,  and  what  might  not  come  of  it !  See- 
ing, however,  that  she  had  kept  silent  so  long, 
she  had  probably  lost  all  care  about  him,  and  if 
let  alone  would  say  nothing  to  trouble  him. 
Thus  he  reasoned  with  himself  against  doing 
anything,  shrinking  from  the  very  thought  of 
looking  the  lost,  disreputable  creature  in  the 
eyes.  Yet  every  now  and  then  the  old  tender- 
ness would  come  surging  up  in  him,  —  to  meet 
the  awful  consciousness  that,  if  she  had  fallen 
into  drunken  habits  and  possibly  worse,  it  was 
all  his  fault,  and  the  ruin  of  the  once  lovely  and 
lovable  creature  lay  at  his  door  and  his  alone. 

He  made  haste  to  his  room,  and  to  bed, 
where  for  a  long  while  he  lay  unable  even  to 
think.  Then  all  at  once,  with  gathered  force, 
the  frightful  reality,  the  keen,  bare  truth,  broke 
upon  him  like  a  huge,  cold  wave;  he  had  a 
clear  vision  of  his  guilt,  and  the  vision  was  con- 
scious of  itself  as  Ids;  he  saw  it  rounded  in  a 
grey  fog  of  life-chilling  dismay.  What  was  he 
but  a  troth-breaker,  a  liar,  —  and  that  in  strong 
fact,  not  in  feeble  tongue?  "  W^hat  art  thou," 
said  Conscience,  "  but  a  cruel,  self-seeking,  love- 
less horror,  —  a  contemptible  sneak,  who,  in 
dread  of  missing  the  praises  of  men,  had  crept 
away  unseen,  and  left  the  woman  to  bear  alone 
their  common  sin !  "  What  was  he  but  a  whited 
99 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

sepulchre,  full  of  dead  men's  bones  and  all  un- 
cleanness?  —  a  fellow  posing  in  the  pulpit  as  an 
example  to  the  faithful,  who  knew  all  the  time 
that  somewhere  in  the  land  lived  a  woman  — 
once  a  loving,  trusting  woman — who  could  with 
a  word  hold  him  up  to  the  world  a  hypocrite 
and  a  dastard,  — 

*'  A  fixed  figure  for  the  time  of  scorn 
To  point  his  slow  unnioving  finger  at !  " 

He  sprang  to  the  floor;  the  cold  hand  of  an 
injured  ghost  seemed  clutching  feebly  at  his 
throat.  But,  in  or  out  of  bed,  what  could  he 
do?  Utterly  helpless,  he  thought,  but  in  truth 
not  daring  to  look  the  question  in  the  face,  he 
crept  back  ignominiously,  and,  growing  a  little 
less  uncomfortable,  began  to  reason  with  him- 
self that  things  were  not  so  bad  as  they  had  for 
a  moment  seemed ;  that  many  another  had 
failed  in  like  fashion  with  him,  but  the  fault 
was  forgotten,  and  had  never  reappeared  against 
him,  —  neither  could  any  culprit  be  required 
to  bear  witness  against  himself.  He  must  learn 
to  discipline  and  repress  his  over-sensitiveness, 
otherwise  it  would  one  day  seize  him  at  a  disad- 
vantage, and  betray  him  into  exposing  himself. 
Thus  he  reasoned,  and  sank  back  once  more 
among  the  all  but  dead ;  the  loud  alarum 
of  his  rousing  conscience  ceased,   and  he  fell 

I  GO 


SALTED   WITH  i FIRS 

asleep  in  the  resolve  to  get  avvny '^fro'iT- Dee- 
mouth  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  before 
Mr.  Robertson  should  be  awake. 

Truly,  it  had  been  well  for  him  to  hold  fast 
his  repentant  mood,  but  very  few  of  his  practi- 
cal ideas,  however  much  brooded  over  at  night, 
lived  to  be  a  fruit  in  the  morning;  at  this  time 
in  his  life,  indeed,  he  never  embodied  in  action 
a  single  resolve  that  pointed  in  the  direction  of 
amendment.  He  could  welcome  the  thought  of 
a  final  release  from  sin  and  suffering  at  the  dis- 
solution of  nature,  but  did  his  best  to  forget 
that  at  the  very  moment  he  was  suffering  be- 
cause of  sin  for  which  he  had  never  taken  the 
least  trouble  to  make  the  amends  that  were  pos- 
sible to  him.  He  had  lived  for  himself,  to  the 
destruction  of  one  whom  he  once  loved,  and  to 
the  denial  of  his  Lord  and  Master !  More  than 
twice  on  his  way  home  he  all  but  turned  to  go 
back  to  the  police  station,  but  it  was,  as  usual, 
only  all  but,  and  he  kept  waiting  on. 


lOI 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER   XII 

But  the  yet  early  morning  saw  his  friend  Rob- 
ertson on  his  way  to  do  what  he  might  for  the 
redemption  of  one  concerning  whom  he  knew 
little  or  nothing.  The  policemen  returning  from 
their  night's  duty  found  him  already  at  the  door 
of  the  office,  where  he  was  at  once  admitted,  for 
he  was  well  known  to  most  of  them. 

He  found  the  poor  woman  miserably  recovered 
from  the  effects  of  her  dissipation.  She  was  not 
merely  ill  and  wretched,  but  looked  so  woe- 
begone that  the  heart  of  the  good  man,  whose 
office  in  the  economy  of  the  world  was  healthful 
consolation,  was  immediately  filled  with  the  pro- 
foundest  pity,  recognising  before  him  a  creature 
whose  hope  was  wasted  to  the  verge  of  despair. 
She  neither  looked  up  nor  spoke,  but  what  he 
could  see  of  her  face  appeared  neither  sullen 
nor  vengeful.  When  he  addressed  her,  she  lifted 
her  head  a  little,  but  not  her  eyes  to  his  face, 
confessing  apparently  that  she  had  and  sought 
nothing  to  say  for  herself  He  saw  in  her  the 
signs  of  a  despair  on  the  point  of  taking  refuge 
at  the  water-door  out  of  life.  Tenderly,  as  if  to 
the  little  one  he  had  left  in  bed  with  her  mother, 

102 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

he  spoke  in  her  scarce-listening  ear  child-sooth- 
ing words  of  almost  inarticulate  sympathy,  and 
his  tone  carried  what  it  meant  where  his  words 
were  hardly  intelligible.  She  lifted  her  lost  eyes, 
and  at  sight  of  his  face  burst  into  tears. 

"  Na,  na,"  she  cried,  through  tearing  sobs,  "  ye 
canna  help  me,  sir  !  There  's  naething  'at  you 
or  onybody  can  dee  for  me  !  But  I  'm  near  the 
mou'  o'  the  pit,  and  God  be  thankit,  I  '11  be  ower 
the  rim  o'  't  or  I  hae  grutten  my  last  greit 
cot !  For  God's  sake,  gie  me  a  drink —  a  drink 
o'  onything!  " 

"  I  daurna  gie  ye  onything  Strang,"  answered 
the  minister,  who  could  scarcely  speak  for  a 
swelling  in  his  throat.  "  What  ye  want  is  a  cup 
o'  nice  het  tay !  There  's  a  cab  waitin'  me  at  the 
door ;  get  ye  up,  my  puir  bairn,  and  come  hame 
wi'  me.  My  wife  '11  be  doon  afore  we  win  back, 
an'  she  '11  hae  a  cup  o'  tay  ready  for  ye  in 
ae  minute !  You  and  me  'ill  hae  oor  breakfast 
thegither." 

"  Ken  ye  what  ye  're  sayin',  sir?  I  daurna  luik 
honest  wuman  i'  the  face.  I  *m  sic  as  ye  ken 
naething  aboot !  " 

"  I  ken  a  heap  aboot  fowk  o'  a'  kinds,  —  mair, 
a  heap,  nor  ye  ken  yersel',  I  'm  thinking !  I  ken 
mair  aboot  you  nor  ye  think,  for  I  hae  seen  ye  i' 
my  ain  kirk  mair  nor  ance  or  twice.  I  was 
preachin'  straucht  intill  yer  bonny  face,  and  saw 
103 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

ye  greitin',  and  maist  grat  mysel'.  Come  awa' 
hame  wi'  me,  my  dear;  my  wife 's  ane  jist  like 
mysel',  an'  '11  turn  naething  but  the  smilin'  side 
o'  her  face  to  ye,  I  s'  promise  ye.  She  's  no  an 
ill  wuman,  I  can  assure  ye  —  nor  luiks  like  it. 
Come  awa' ! " 

She  rose. 

"  Eh,  but  I  would  like  to  luik  ance  mair  i'  the 
face  o'  a  bonny,  clean  wuman  !  I  '11  gang,  sir  — 
only,  I  pray  ye,  mak'  speed  and  tak'  me  oot  o' 
the  sicht  o'  fowk  !  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  com'  awa' ;  we  '11  hae  ye  oot  o*  this  in 
a  moment,"  answered  Mr.  Robertson.  —  "  Put 
the  fine  doon  to  me,"  he  whispered  to  the  in- 
spector, as  they  passed  him  on  their  way  out. 
The  man  merely  returned  his  nod,  and  took  no 
further  notice  of  the  woman. 

"  I  thoucht  that  was  what  would  come  o'  't !  " 
he  murmured  to  himself  as  he  looked  after  them 
with  a  smile. 

But  indeed  he  knew  little  of  what  would  come 
of  it! 

The  good  minister  whose  heart  was  the 
teacher  of  his  head,  and  who  was  not  ashamed 
either  of  himself  or  his  companion,  showed  Isy 
into  their  little  breakfast-parlour,  and  ran  up  the 
stair  to  his  wife.  Hurriedly  he  told  her  that  he 
had  brought  the  woman  home,  and  wanted  her 
judgment  upon  her.  Mrs.  Robertson  hurried 
104 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

her  toilet,  left  her  child  to  the  care  of  her  one 
servant,  and  made  haste  to  welcome  the  poor 
shivering  bird  of  the  night,  waiting  with  ruffled 
feathers  below.  She  opened  the  door,  and  stood 
silent  on  the  threshold  while  the  two  made  the 
acquaintance  of  each  other's  eyes.  Then  the 
wanderer  fled  to  the  wide-opened  arms,  but, 
failing,  fell  on  the  floor.  Instantly  the  other  was 
down  by  her  side.  Her  husband  came,  and  be- 
tween them  they  laid  her  on  the  little  couch. 

"Shall  I  get  the  brandy?"  asked  Mrs. 
Robertson. 

"  Try  a  cup  of  tea  first,"  he  answered.  "  If 
she  does  not  come  to  at  once,  I  will  run  for  the 
doctor." 

Mrs.  Robertson  made  haste,  and  soon  had  the 
tea  poured  out  and  cooling.  But  Isy  still  lay 
motionless.  Then  her  hostess,  kneeling  by  the 
sofa,  raised  the  helpless  head  upon  her  arm,  and, 
putting  a  spoonful  of  tea  to  her  lips,  found  to 
her  joy  that  she  tried  to  swallow  it.  The  next 
minute  she  opened  her  eyes  and  would  have 
risen,  but  the  rescuing  hand  held  her  down. 

"  I  want  to  tell  ye  !  "  moaned  Isy,  with  feeble 
expostulation :  "  ye  dinna  ken  wha  ye  hae  taen 
intill  yer  hoose  !  Lat  me  up  to  get  my  breath, 
or  I  winna  be  able  to  tell  ye." 

"  Drink  the  tea,"  answered  the  other,  "  and 
then  you  shall  say  what  you  like.     Only  you 
105 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

need  n't   try  to  say  much :    there  will   be   time 
enough  afterwards  for  everything." 

The  poor  girl  opened  her  eyes  wide,  and 
gazed  for  a  moment  at  Mrs.  Robertson.  Then 
she  took  the  cup  and  drank  the  tea.  Her  new 
friend  went  on  :  — 

"  You  must  just  be  content  to  bide  where  you 
are  for  a  day  or  two.  And  ye  're  no  to  fash  yer- 
sel'  aboot  onything.  I  have  clothes  enough  to 
give  you  all  the  change  you  want.  Hold  your 
tongue,  please,  and  finish  your  tea." 

"  Eh,  mem,"  cried  Isy,  "  fowk  '11  say  ill  o*  ye, 
gien  they  see  the  like  o'  me  i'  the  hoose  !  " 

"  Lat  them  say,  and  say  't  again  !  What 's 
fowk  but  muckle  geese?  " 

"  But  there 's  the  minister  and  his  character !  " 
she  persisted. 

"Hoots!  what  cares  the  minister?"  said  his 
wife.  "  Speir  at  him  there  what  he  thinks  o' 
clash." 

"  'Deed,"  he  answered,  "  I  never  heedid  it 
eneuch  to  tell.  There 's  but  ae  word  I  heed, 
and  that 's  my  Maister's  !  " 

*'  Eh,  but  ye  canna  lift  me  oot  o'  the  pit !  " 

"  God  helpin',  I  can,"  returned  the  minister. 
"  But  ye  're  no  i'  the  pit  yet  by  a  lang  road  ;  and 
oot  o'  the  road  till 't  I  s'  hae  ye,  please  God, 
afore  anither  nicht  has  darkent  and  anither 
mornin'  dawed !  " 

1 06 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  I  dinna  ken  what 's  to  come  o*  me  !  " 

"  What 's  to  come  o'  ye  we  'II  soon  see ! 
Brakfast  's  yer  business  the  noo ;  and  efter  that 
my  wife  an'  me  'II  sit  in  jeedgment  upo*  ye. 
Ye  'II  say  what  ye  please,  and  neither  ill  fowk 
nor  unco  guid  sail  come  nigh  ye," 

A  pitiful  smile  flitted  across  the  face  of  Isy, 
with  the  almost  babyish  look  that  used  to  form 
part  of  her  charm.  Then,  like  an  obedient  child, 
she  set  herself  to  eat  and  drink  what  she  could. 
When  she  had  evidently  done  her  best,  — • 

"  Now  put  up  your  feet  again  on  the  sofa,  and 
tell  us  everything,"  said  the  minister. 

"  No,"  returned  Isy,  "  I  'm  not  at  liberty  to 
tell  you  everything." 

"  Then  tell  us  what  you  please — so  long  as 
it's  true,"  he  rejoined. 

"  I  will,  sir,"  she  replied. 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  as  if  thinking 
how  to  begin ;  then,  after  a  gasp  or  two,  said,  — 

"I'm  not  a  good  woman.  Perhaps  I  am 
worse  than  you  think  me.  Oh,  my  baby !  my 
baby  1 "  she  cried,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"There  's  nae  that  mony  o'  's  just  what  ither 
fowk  think  us,"  said  the  minister's  wife. 
"We're  in  general  baith  better  and  waur  nor 
that.  But  tell  me  ae  thing,  —  what  took  ye, 
last  nicht,  straucht  frae  the  kirk  to  the  public.-' 
The  twa  haudna  weel  thegither !  " 
107 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"It  was  this,  ma'am,"  she  replied,  reassum- 
ing  the  more  refined  speech  to  which  she  had 
latterly  been  less  accustomed ;  "  I  had  a  dread- 
ful shock  that  night  from  suddenly  seeing  some 
one  in  the  church  I  had  not  thought  ever  to  see 
again.  And  when  I  got  out  into  the  street,  I 
turned  so  sick  that  somebody  gave  me  whisky, 
and  I  disgraced  myself.  Indeed  I  am  greatly 
ashamed  of  it,  ma'am;  but  I  have  a  much 
worse  trouble  upon  me  than  that,  —  one  you 
would  hardly  believe!" 

"I  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Robertson,  modi- 
fying her  speech  the  moment  she  perceived  the 
change  in  that  of  her  guest.  "  You  saw  him  in 
the  church,  — the  man  that  got  you  into  trouble ! 
I  thought  that  must  be  it !  Tell  me  about 
him!" 

"  I  will  not  tell  his  name.  I  was  the  most  in 
fault,  for  I  knew  better.  I  would  rather  die 
than  do  him  any  more  mischief!  —  Good- 
morning,  ma'am!  —  I  thank  you  kindly,  sir! 
Believe  me,  I  am  not  ungrateful,  whatever  else 
I  may  be  that  is  bad." 

She  rose  as  she  spoke ;  but  Mrs.  Robertson 
got  to  the  door  first,  and,  standing  between  her 
and  it,  confronted  her  with  a  smile. 

"Don't  think  I  blame  you  for  holding  your 
tongue,  my  dear.     I  believe,  if  I  were  in  the 
same  case  —  or,  at  least,  I  hope  that  if  I  were, 
1 08 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

hot  pincers  would  n't  draw  his  name  out  of  me. 
What  right  has  every  vulgar  inquisitive  woman 
to  know  the  secret  gnawing  at  your  heart  like 
a  live  serpent?  I  will  never  ask  you  anything 
about  him. — There!  you  have  my  promise! 
Now  sit  down  again,  and  don't  be  afraid.  Tell 
me  what  you  like,  and  not  a  word  more.  The 
minister  is  sure  to  comfort  you." 

"What  can  anybody  do  to  comfort  such  as 
me  I  I  am  lost  —  lost  out  of  sight !  Nothing 
can  save  me!  The  Saviour  himself  wouldn't 
open  the  door  to  a  woman  that  left  her  sucking 
child  out  in  the  dark  night!  —  That  's  what  I 
did ! "  she  cried,  ending  with  a  wail  as  from 
a  heart  whose  wound  eternal  years  could  not 
close. 

Growing  a  little  calmer,  — 

"I  would  not  have  you  think,  ma'am,"  she 
resumed,  "that  I  was  careless  of  what  might 
happen  to  the  darling.  But  my  wits  went  all 
of  a  sudden,  and  a  terror  came  upon  me.  Could 
it  have  been  the  hunger,  do  you  think.-'  I  laid 
him  down  in  the  heather,  and  ran  from  him. 
How  far  I  went  I  do  not  know.  But  all  at 
once  I  came  to  myself,  and  knew  what  I  had 
done,  and  ran  to  take  him  up  again.  But 
whether  I  lost  my  way  back,  or  what  I  did,  I 
cannot  tell,  only  I  could  not  find  him!  Then 
for  a  while  I  must  have  been  clean  out  of  my 
109 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

mind;  I  was  always  thinking  I  saw  him  torn  by 
the  foxes,  and  the  corbies  picking  out  his  eyes. 
Even  now,  at  night,  I  cannot  get  things  like 
that  out  of  my  head !  It  was  that  drove  me  to 
the  drink  for  a  while.  If  only  I  could  keep 
from  seeing  them  when  I  'm  falling  asleep! " 

She  gave  a  smothered  scream,  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands.  Mrs.  Robertson,  weeping  her- 
self, sought  to  comfort  her,  but  it  seemed  in  vain. 

"The  worst  o'  't  is,"  Isy  resumed,  "  —  for 
I  maun  confess  a'  thing,  mem !  —  is  that  I 
canna  tell  what  I  may  hae  done  i'  the  drink.  I 
may  even  hae  tellt  his  name,  though  I  min' 
naething  aboot  it !  It  maun  be  months  sin'  I 
tastit  a  drap;  but  I  'm  no  fit  that  he  should  ever 
cast  a  luik  at  me  again !  My  hert  's  jist  like  to 
brak  when  I  think  I  may  hae  been  fause  to  him, 
as  weel  as  fause  to  my  bairn,  as  I  hae  been  to 
Him  that  said  to  the  greitin'  sinner,  Gang  yer 
wa's  and  dinna  dee  't  again.  —  Eh,  but  wasna 
that  bonny  o'  him.''  And  there  's  me  has  gane 
and  dune  't  again,  ever  sae  aften  —  I  mean  the 
drink,  mem !  —  Gien  the  deils  wud  but  come 
and  rive  me,  I  would  say  to  them,  Thank  ye, 
sirs,   ilka  bit  they  tore  oot  o'  me ! " 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  voice  of  the  parson,  from 

where  he  sat  listening  to  every  word  she  uttered, 

—  "my  dear,  there  's  never  deil  sail  come  nigh 

you  or  the  wee  dowie  ye  hae  lost  sicht  o'  for  a 

no 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

time;  naething  but  the  han'  o'  the  Son  o'  Man  '11 
come  upon  ye,  saft-strokin'  yer  hert,  and  closin' 
up  the  terrible  gash  intill  't.  I'  the  name  o' 
God,  I  tell  ye,  dautie,  the  day  'ill  come  whan 
ye  '11  smile  i'  the  vera  face  o'  the  Lord  himsel' 
at  thoucht  o'  what  he  has  broucht  ye  throw! 
Lord  Christ,  keep  a  guid  gruip  o'  thy  puir 
bairn,  and  gie  her  back  her  ain.  Thy  wull  be 
done!  and  that  wull's  a'  for  redemption!  — 
Gang  on  wi'  yer  tale,   my  lassie." 

"'Deed,  sir,  I  can  say  nae  mair  —  and  hae 
nae  mair  to  say ;  I  'm  some  —  some  sick-like  !  " 

She  fell  back  on  the  sofa,  white  as  death. 

The  parson  was  a  big  man;  he  took  her 
bodily  in  his  arms,  and  carried  her  to  a  room 
they  had  always  ready,  on  the  chance  of  a  visit 
from  "one  of  the  least  of  these." 

At  the  top  of  the  stair  stood  their  little 
daughter,  a  child  of  five  or  six,  wanting  to  go 
down  to  her  mother,  and  wondering  why  she 
was  not  permitted. 

"Who  is  it,  moder.?"  she  whispered,  as  Mrs. 
Robertson  passed  her,  following  her  husband 
and  Isy.     "  Is  she  very  dead  ?  " 

"No,  darling,"  answered  the  mother;  "it  is 
an  angel  that  has  lost  her  way,  and  is  tired  — 
so  tired !  You  must  be  very  quiet,  and  not 
disturb  her.  Her  head  is  going  to  ache  very 
much." 

Ill 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

The  child  turned  and  went  down  the  stair, 
step  by  step,  softly,  saying,  — 

"I  will  tell  my  rabbit  not  to  make  any 
noise  —  only  to  be  as  white  as  he  can." 

Once  more  they  succeeded  in  bringing  back 
to  the  light  of  consciousness  her  beclouded 
spirit.  She  woke  in  a  soft  white  bed,  with 
two  faces  of  compassion  bending  over  her, 
closed  her  eyes  again  with  a  smile  of  sweet 
content,  and  was  soon  wrapt  in  a  wholesome 
slumber. 

In  the  meantime  the  caitiff  minister  had 
reached  his  manse,  and  found  a  ghastly  loneli- 
ness awaiting  him,  — oh,  how  much  deeper  than 
that  of  the  woman  he  had  forsaken !  She  had 
lost  her  repute  and  her  baby;  he  had  lost  his 
God ;  the  vision  was  shut  up  in  the  unfathom- 
able abysses  of  thought,  outside  and  far  away 
from  his  consciousness.  The  signs  of  God  were 
around  him  in  the  Book,  around  him  in  the 
world,  around  him  in  his  own  existence,  —  but 
the  signs  only.  God  did  not  speak  to  him,  did 
not  manifest  himself;  he  was  not  where  James 
Blatherwick  sought  him;  he  was  not  in  any 
place  where  he  would  ever  look  for  or  find 
him ! 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER   XHI 

It  must  be  remembered  that  Blatherwick  knew 
nothing  of  the  existence  of  his  child:  such 
knowledge  might  have  modified  the  half- 
conscious  satisfaction  with  which,  on  his  way 
home,  he  now  and  then  saw  a  providence  in  the 
fact  that  he  had  been  preserved  from  marrying 
a  woman  who  proved  capable  of  disgracing  him 
in  the  very  streets :  what  then  would  have  be- 
come of  him  ?  During  his  slow  journey  of  forty 
miles,  most  of  which  he  made  on  foot,  eager 
after  bodily  motion,  again,  as  in  the  night,  he 
had  to  pass  through  many  an  alternation  of 
thought  and  feeling  and  purpose.  To  and  fro 
in  him,  up  and  down,  this  way  and  that,  went 
the  changing  currents  of  self-judgment,  of  self- 
consolement  and  dread  —  never  clear,  never 
determined,  never  set  straight  for  honesty. 
He  must  line  up  —  not  to  the  law  of  righteous- 
ness, but  to  the  show  of  what  a  minister  ought 
to  be;  he  must  appear  unto  men!  In  a  word, 
he  must  keep  up  the  deception  he  had  begun  in 
childhood,  and  had  until  of  late  years  practised 
unknowingly.  Now  he  knew  it,  but  not  how 
8  113 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

to  get  rid  of  it.  In  fact,  he  only  sought  how  to 
conceal  it.  He  had  no  pleasure  in  the  decep- 
tion; he  had  a  conscious  misery  in  not  being 
what  he  seemed,  in  being  compelled,  as  he  fan- 
cied himself  in  excuse,  to  look  like  one  that 
had  not  sinned.  He  grumbled  in  his  heart 
that  God  should  have  forsaken  him  so  far  as  to 
allow  him  to  disgrace  himself  before  his  own 
conscience.  He  did  not  yet  see  that  he  was 
ingrainedly  dark;  that  the  Ethiopian  could 
change  his  skin,  or  the  leopard  his  spots  as  soon 
as  he;  that  he  had  never  yet  looked  purity  in 
the  face;  that  the  fall  which  disgraced  him  in 
his  own  eyes  was  but  the  necessary  outcome  of 
his  character  —  that  it  was  no  accident,  but  an 
unavoidable  result;  that  his  true  nature  had 
but  appeared,  as  everything  hid  must  be  known, 
and  everything  covered  revealed.  Even  to  be- 
gin the  purification  without  which  his  moral  and 
spiritual  being  must  perish  eternally,  he  must 
dare  to  look  on  himself  as  he  was;  there  were 
others  who  saw  him  as  he  was ;  but  he  shrank 
from  recognising  himself,  and  thought  he  lay 
hid  from  all.  Dante  describes  certain  of  the 
redeemed  as  lying  hid  in  their  own  cocoon  of 
light,  but  James  lay  hidden  like  the  insect  in 
its  own  gozvk-spittle.  It  is  strange,  but  so  it 
is,  that  many  a  man  never  sees  himself  until  he 
becomes  aware  of  the  eyes  of  other  men  fixed 
114 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

upon  him;  they  seeing  him,  and  he  knowing 
that  they  see  him,  then  first,  even  to  himself, 
will  he  confess  what  he  may  have  long  all  but 
known.  Blatherwick's  hour  was  on  its  way, 
slow  in  coming,  but  not  to  be  avoided.  His 
soul  was  ripening  to  self-declaration.  The 
ugly  flower  must  blossom,  must  show  itself  as 
the  flower  of  that  evil  thing  he  counted  himself. 
What  a  hold  has  not  God  upon  us,  in  this  inevi- 
table ripening  of  the  unseen  into  the  visible  and 
present !  The  flower  is  there  and  must  appear. 
In  the  meantime  he  suffered,  and  walked  on  in 
silence,  walking  like  a  servant  of  the  Ancient 
of  Days,  but  knowing  himself  a  whited  sepul- 
chre. Within  him  he  felt  the  dead  body  that 
could  not  rest  until  it  was  laid  bare  to  the  sun; 
but  all  the  time  he  comforted  himself  that  he 
had  not  fallen  a  second  time,  and  that  the  once 
would  not  be  remembered  against  him :  did  not 
the  fact  that  it  was  forgotten,  most  likely  in- 
deed was  never  known,  indicate  that  he  was 
forgiven  of  God.^  And  so,  unrepentant,  he 
remained  unforgiven,  for  he  remained  the  ser- 
vant of  sin. 

But  the  hideous  thing  was  not  altogether  con- 
cealed; something  showed  under  the  covering 
whiteness !  His  mother  saw  the  shapeless 
something  that  haunted  him,  and  shrank  from 
conjecturing  what  it  might  be,  though  often 
^^5 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

she  asked  herself  what  was  amiss  with  him,  and 
why  the  fashion  of  his  countenance  seemed  so 
changed  when  next  she  saw  him.  His  father, 
too,  felt  that  he  had  gone  from  him  utterly; 
that  all  his  son's  feeding  of  the  flock  had  done 
nothing  to  bring  his  parents  and  him  nearer  to 
each  other!  What  could  be  lying  hidden  be- 
neath the  mask  of  that  unsmiling  face? 

But  there  was  one  who  could  see  a  little 
deeper  than  either  of  the  parents.  One  day, 
after  the  interval  of  a  fortnight,  the  minister 
walked  into  the  workshop  of  the  soutar,  and 
found  him  there  as  usual,  his  hands  working 
away  diligently,  and  his  thoughts  brooding 
over  the  blessed  fact,  that  God  is  not  the  God 
of  the  perfect  only,  but  of  the  growing  as  well; 
not  the  God  of  the  righteous  only,  but  of  those 
also  who  hunger  and  thirst  after  righteousness: 

"  God  blaw  on  the  smoking  flax  and  tie  up 
the  bruised  reed!"  he  was  saying  to  himself 
aloud  when  in  walked  the  minister. 

Now,  as  in  other  mystical  natures,  a  some- 
thing had  been  developed  in  the  soutar  very 
like  the  spirit  of  prophecy  —  an  insight,  that 
is,  which,  seemingly  without  exercise  of  the 
will,  in  a  measure  laid  bare  to  him  the  thoughts 
and  intents  of  some  heart  in  whom  he  was 
deeply  interested;  or  perhaps  it  was  rather  a 

faculty,  working  unconsciously,   of  putting  to- 
ii6 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

gether  outward  signs,  and  drawing  from  them 
an  instantaneous  conclusion  as  to  the  single 
fact  at  which  they  all  pointed,  the  thing,  that 
is,  which  would  explain  them  all.  After  the 
first  greeting,  when  he  had  but  glanced  up  from 
the  old  shoe  he  was  cobbling,  he  looked  up 
with  a  certain  sudden  fixing  of  his  attention 
upon  his  visitor,  for  the  mere  glance  had  shown 
him  that  he  looked  ill,  and  perceived  that  some- 
thing in  the  man's  heart  was  eating  at  it  like  a 
canker;  and  with  that  the  question  rose  in  his 
brain  —  could  he  be  the  father  of  the  little  one 
crowing  in  the  next  room  ?  The  same  moment 
he  shut  the  question  into  the  darkest  closet  of 
his  mind,  for  he  shrank  from  the  secret  of  an- 
other soul,  as  from  lifting  a  corner  of  the  veil 
that  hid  the  Holy  of  Holies!  But  what,  he 
thought  again,  if  the  man  stood  in  need  of  the 
offices  of  a  friend  ?  It  was  one  thing  to  pry  into 
a  man's  secret;  another,  to  help  him  to  escape 
from  it !  As  out  of  this  thought  he  sat  looking 
at  him  for  a  moment,  the  minister  felt  the  hot 
blood  rush  to  his  cheeks. 

"Ye  dinna  luik  that  weel,  minister,"  said 
the  soutar;  "is  there  onything  the  matter  wi' 
ye,  sir? " 

"Nothing  worth  mentioning,"  answered  the 
parson.     "  I  have  sometimes  a  touch  of  head- 
ache in  the  early  morning,  especially  when  I 
117 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

have  sat  later  than  usual  over  my  books  the 
night  before,  but  it  always  goes  off  during  the 
day." 

"Ow  weel,  sir,  that's  no,  as  ye  say,  a  vera 
sarious  thing!  I  couldna  help  fancyin'  ye 
had  something  on  yer  min'  by  ord'nar!  " 

"Naething,  naething,"  rejoined  the  minister, 
with  a  feeble  laugh.  " —  But,"  he  went  on  — 
and  something  seemed  to  send  the  words  to  his 
lips  without  giving  him  time  to  think  —  "  it  is 
curious  you  should  say  that,  for  I  was  just 
thinking  what  was  the  real  intent  of  the  Apostle 
in  his  injunction  to  confess  our  faults  to  one 
another." 

The  moment  he  uttered  the  words,  he  felt  as 
if  he  had  proclaimed  his  secret  on  the  house- 
top, and  began  the  sentence  afresh,  with  the 
notion  of  correcting  it;  but  again  he  felt  the 
hot  blood  shooting  to  his  face.  "  I  must  go  on 
with  something,"  he  felt  rather  than  said  to 
himself,  "or  those  sharp  eyes  will  see  through 
and  through  me! " 

"It  came  into  my  mind,"  he  went  on,  "that 
I  should  like  to  know  what  yoii  thought  about 
the  passage;  it  cannot  surely  give  any  ground 
for  auricular  confession !  I  understand  per- 
fectly how  a  man  may  want  to  consult  a  friend 
in  any  difficulty  —  and  that  friend  naturally  the 
minister;  but  —  " 

ii8 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

This  was  by  no  means  a  thing  he  had  meant 
to  say,  but  he  seemed  carried  on  to  say  he  knew 
not  what.  It  was  as  if,  without  his  will,  the 
will  of  God  was  driving  the  man  to  the  brink 
of  a  pure  confession  —  to  the  cleansing  of  his 
stuffed  bosom  from  "  that  perilous  stuff  which 
weighs  upon  the  heart." 

"Do  you  think,  for  instance, "  he  went  on, 
thus  driven,  "that  a  man  is  bound  to  tell  every- 
thing—  even  to  the  friend  he  loves  best.-'" 

"I  think,"  answered  the  soutar  after  a 
moment's  thought,  "that  we  must  answer  the 
w/iat,  before  we  enter  upon  the  hozv  much. 
And  I  think,  first  of  all,  we  must  ask  —  to 
whom  are  we  bound  to  confess.-'  —  and  there 
surely  the  answer  is,  to  him  to  whom  we  have 
done  the  wrong.  If  we  have  been  grumbling 
in  our  hearts,  it  is  to  God  we  must  confess ; 
who  else  has  to  do  with  the  matter  .-•  To  Him 
we  maun  flee  the  moment  our  eyes  are  opened 
to  what  we  've  been  doin'  !  But,  gien  we  hae 
wranged  ane  o'  oor  fellow-craturs,  wha  are  we 
to  gang  till  wi'  oor  confession  but  that  same.-' 
It  seems  to  me  we  maun  gang  to  that  man  first 
—  even  afore  we  gang  to  God  himsel',  excep'  it 
be  wi'  a  cry  for  stren'th  as  we  gang.  And  not 
one  moment  must  we  indulge  procrastination 
on  the  plea  o'  pray  in'  !  From  our  knees  we 
maun  rise  in  haste,  to  say  to  brother  or  sister, 
119 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

'I've  done  ye  this  or  that  wrong:  forgi'e  me. 
God  can  wait  for  your  prayer  better  than  you, 
or  him  that  ye  've  wranged,  can  wait  for  your 
confession !  After  that  ye  maun  at  ance  fa'  to 
your  best  endeevour  to  mak'  up  for  the  wrang. 
'Confess  your  sins,'  I  think  it  means,  'each  o' 
ye  to  the  ither  against  whom  is  the  offence. ' 
Dinna  ye  think  that 's  the  common-sense  o'  the 
thing.?" 

"  Indeed,  I  think  you  must  be  right ! "  replied 
the  minister,  who  sat  summoning  resolution  to 
cover  his  retreat  as  well  as  he  could.  "  I  will 
go  home  and  think  it  over.  Indeed,  I  am  al- 
ready all  but  convinced  that  must  be  what  the 
Apostle  intended." 

With  a  great  sigh,  of  which  he  was  not 
aware,  Blatherwick  rose  and  walked  from  the 
kitchen,  hoping  he  looked  not  guilty,  but  sunk 
in  thought.  In  truth,  however,  he  was  unable 
to  think.  Oppressed  and  heavy-laden  with  the 
sense  of  a  duty  too  unpleasant  for  his  perform- 
ance, he  went  home  to  his  cheerless  manse, 
where  his  housekeeper  was  the  only  person  to 
speak  to,  a  woman  nearly  incapable  of  comfort- 
ing anybody.  He  went  straight  to  his  study, 
and  there  kneeling,  found  he  could  not  pray 
the  simplest  prayer;  he  could  not  pray  without 
words,  and  not  a  word  would  come !  For  the 
time  he  was  dead,  and  in  hell  —  so  far  perished 

I20 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

that  he  felt  nothing.  He  rose,  and  sought  the 
open  air,  but  it  brought  him  no  restoration. 
He  had  not  heeded  his  friend's  advice,  had  not 
even  contemplated  the  one  thing  possible  to 
him,  had  not  moved,  even  in  spirit,  toward 
Isy!  The  only  comfort  of  his  guilty  soul  was 
the  thought  that  he  could  at  present  do  noth- 
ing, for  he  did  not  know  where  Isy  was  to  be 
found.  When  he  remembered  the  next  moment 
that  his  friend  Robertson  must  be  able  to  find 
her,  he  soothed  his  conscience  with  the  reflec- 
tion that  there  was  no  coach  till  the  next  morn- 
ing! In  the  meantime  he  could  write:  a  letter 
would  reach  him  almost  as  soon  as  he  could 
himself!  But  what  would  Robertson  think? 
He  might  give  his  wife  the  letter  to  read  I  She 
might  read  it  herself,  for  they  concealed  noth- 
ing from  each  other!  So  he  only  walked  the 
faster,  tired  himself,  and  earned  an  appetite: 
that  was  his  day's  work!  He  ate  a  good  din- 
ner, although  without  much  enjoyment,  and, 
after  it,  fell  fast  asleep  in  his  chair.  No  letter 
was  written  that  day.  No  letter  of  such  sort 
was  ever  written.  The  spirit  was  not  willing, 
and  the  flesh  was  weakness  itself. 

In  the  evening  he  took  up  a  learned  commen- 
tary on  the  Book  of  Job;  but  he  never  even 
approached  the  discovery  of  what  Job  wanted, 
received,  and  was  satisfied  withal.     He  never 

121 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

saw  that  what  he  himself  needed,  but  did  not 
desire,  was  the  same  thing  —  even  a  sight  of 
God!  He  never  perceived  that  when  God  came 
to  Job,  Job  forgot  all  he  intended  to  say  to 
him  —  had  not  a  question  to  ask  him  —  knew 
that  all  was  well.  The  student  could  not  see 
that  the  very  presence  of  the  Father  of  men 
sufficed  to  answer  'every  doubt!  But  then 
James's  heart  was  not  pure  like  Job's,  and  he 
could  not  see  God;  he  did  not  even  desire  to 
see  him,  therefore  could  see  nothing  as  it  was. 
He  read  with  the  devil  beside  him,  and  the  hurt 
of  his  presence  in  his  heart. 

He  was  like  the  Mephistopheles  of  Marlowe's 
Faust.  The  student,  in  his  conversation  with 
the  demon,  asks  him,  — 

"  How  comes  it,  then,  that  thou  art  out  of  hell?  " 

And  Mephistopheles  answers  him,  — 

"  Why,  this  is  hell,  nor  am  I  out  of  it." 

And  again,  — 

"  Where  we  are  is  hell ; 
And  where  hell  is  there  must  we  ever  be. 
.     .     .     .     When  all  the  world  dissolves. 
And  every  creature  shall  be  purified, 
All  places  shall  be  hell  that  are  not  heaven." 

And  yet  again,  — 

"  I  tell  thee  I  am  damned,  and  now  in  hell." 

122 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

And  as  James  sat  thus  miserable,  or  lay 
sleepless,  or  walked  in  his  death  about  the 
room,  his  father  and  mother,  some  three  miles 
or  so  away,  were  talking  about  him  in  bed. 


123 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER  XIV 

For  some  time  they  had  lain  silent,  thinking 
and  thinking  about  him  by  no  means  happily. 
They  were  thinking  how  little  had  been  their 
satisfaction  in  their  minister-son ;  and  both  had 
gone  back  in  their  minds  to  a  certain  time,  long 
before,  when  they  had  conferred  together  about 
him  while  he  was  but  a  boy  at  school. 

The  heart  of  the  mother  had  even  then  begun 
to  resent  his  coldness,  his  seeming  unconscious- 
ness of  his  parents  as  having  any  share  or  in- 
terest in  his  life  or  prospects.  Scotch  parents 
are  seldom  demonstrative  to  each  other  or  to 
their  children ;  but  in  them,  too,  possibly  even 
the  hotter  because  of  their  outward  coldness, 
burns  the  causal  fire  —  the  first,  the  central,  the 
deepest  in  their  being ;  for  it  is  that  eternal  fire 
which  keeps  the  world  from  turning  to  a  frozen 
clod :  the  love  of  parents  must  burn  while  the 
Father  lives  ;  it  must  burn  until  the  universe  is 
the  Father  and  his  children,  and  none  beside. 
That  fire,  when  held  down  and  crushed  together 
by  the  weight  of  unkindled  fuel,  will  gather 
heat,  and  gathering  glow,  until  it  break  forth  in 
124 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

the  scorching  and  wounding  flames  of  a  right- 
eous indignation.  But  for  the  present  this  wor- 
thy pair  endured,  and  were  still.  Their  son 
was  always  hidden  from  them  by  an  impervious 
moral  hedge ;  he  never  came  out  from  behind 
it,  never  stood  clear  before  them ;  and  they 
were  unable  to  break  through  to  him.  There 
was  no  angelic  traitor  within  his  citadel  of  in- 
difference to  draw  back  the  bolts  of  its  iron 
gates  and  let  them  in.  They  had  gone  on  hop- 
ing, and  hoping  in  vain,  for  some  holy,  lovely 
change  in  him ;  but  at  last  confessed  it  a  relief 
when  he  left  the  house  and  went  to  Edinburgh. 

The  children  were  in  bed  and  asleep,  and  the 
parents  lay  as  now,  sleepless. 

"Hoo's  Jamie  been  gettin'  on  the  day?"  his 
father  had  said. 

"  Well  enough,  I  suppose,"  answered  his 
mother,  who  did  not  then  speak  Scotch  quite 
so  broad  as  her  husband's,  although  a  good  deal 
broader  than  her  mother,  the  wife  of  a  country 
doctor,  would  have  permitted  when  she  was  a 
child ;  "  he  's  always  busy  at  his  books.  He  's  a 
good  boy,  and  a  diligent ;  there  's  no  gainsayin' 
that !  But  as  to  kennin'  hoo  he  's  gettin'  on,  I  can 
beir  no  testimony.  He  never  lets  a  word  go  from 
him  as  to  what  he 's  aboot,  ae  way  or  anither. 
'What  can  he  be  thinkin'  aboot?'  I  whiles  say 
to  mysel'  —  sometimes  ower  and  ower  again  i' 

125 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

the  day.  When  I  go  into  the  parlour,  where  he 
always  sits  till  he  has  done  his  lessons,  he  never 
lifts  his  heid  to  show  that  he  hears  me,  or  cares 
who 's  there  or  who  is  n't.  And  as  soon  as  he  's 
leart  them,  he  takes  a  book  and  goes  up  till  his 
room,  or  oot  aboot  the  hoose  or  the  cornyard, 
or  intill  the  barn,  and  never  comes  near  me  !  I 
sometimes  won'er  gien  ever  he  would  miss  me 
deid  !  "  she  ended,  with  a  great  sigh. 

"  Hoot  awa',  woman !  dinna  tak'  on  like  that 
aboot  it,"  returned  her  husband.  "  The  laddie  's 
like  the  lave  of  laddies  !  They  're  a'  just  like 
pup-doggies  till  their  een  comes  open,  and  they 
ken  them  'at  broucht  them  here.  He  canna 
mak'  a  guid  man,  as  he  wull,  and  no  learn  in 
time  to  be  a  guid  son  to  her  'at  bore  him  !  Ye 
canna  say  'at  ever  he  contert  ye  !  Ye  hae  tellt 
me  that  a  hunner  times  !  " 

"  I  have  that !  But  I  would  hae  had  no  occa- 
sion to  dwall  upo'  that  fac',  gien  he  had  gi'en 
me,  jist  noo  and  than,  a  wee  bit  sign  o'  ony 
affection !  " 

"  Ay,  doobtless !  but  the  signs  are  no'  the 
thing.  The  affection,  as  ye  ca'  't,  may  be  there, 
and  the  signs  o'  't  wantin' !  —  But  I  ken  weel  hoo 
the  hert  o'  ye  's  workin',  my  ain  auld  dautie  !  " 
he  went  on,  anxious  to  comfort  her  who  was 
dearer  to  him  than  son  or  daughter.  "  I  dinna 
think  it  wad  dee  for  me  to  say  onything  till  him 
126 


SALTED   WITH  FIRE 

aboot  his  behaviour  to  }'c;  it  micht  only  mak' 
things  waur;  for  he  wouldna  ken  what  I  was 
aimin'  at !  I  dinna  beheve  he  has  a  notion  o' 
onything  amiss  in  him,  and  I  fear  he  would  only 
think  I  was  hard  upon  him,  and  no  fair.  Ye  see, 
gien  a  thing  disna  come  oot  o'  'tsel',  no  cryin* 
upo'  't  '11  gar  't  lift  its  heid  frae  the  deeps  —  sae 
lang,  at  least,  as  a  man  himsel'  kens  naething 
aboot  its  vera  existence." 

"  I  don't  doubt  you  're  right,  Peter,"  answered 
his  wife  ;  "  I  know  well  that  scolding  will  never 
make  love  spread  out  his  wings  —  except  it  be 
to  fly  away.  Naething  but  fleein'  can  come  o' 
fly  tin'  !  " 

"  Maybe  it  micht  be  waur  nor  that !  "  rejoined 
Peter :  "  flytin'  may  drive  Love  clean  oot  o'  sicht 
i'  the  droonin'  deeps !  But  we  better  gang  till 
oor  sleeps,  lass  !  We  hae  ane  anither,  whatever 
comes  !  " 

"That's  true,  Peter;  but  aye  the  mair  I  hae 
you,  the  mair  I  want  my  Jamie !  "  cried  the 
mother. 

The  father  said  no  more,  but,  rising  after  a 
while,  stole  softly  into  his  son's  room.  His  wife 
followed  him,  and  found  her  husband  on  his 
knees  by  the  bedside,  his  face  buried  in  his  boy's 
blankets ;  while,  with  calm,  dreamless  counte- 
nance, James  lay  asleep,  nor  knew  a  jot  of  the 
trouble  of  his  parents.  Had  he  been  able  to  look 
127 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

into  their  hearts,  he  would  have  understood 
nothing  of  what  v/ent  on  in  them  — would  have 
seen  no  glow  of  the  fire  that  made  God  able  to 
create. 

Marion  took  her  husband's  hand  and  led  him 
back  to  bed. 

"  To  think,"  she  said  as  they  went,  "  'at  he's 
the  same  bairnie  I  glowert  at  till  my  soul  ran  oot 
at  my  e'en ;  and  I  leuch  and  grat,  baith  at  ance, 
to  think  I  was  the  mother  o'  a  man,  and  kenned 
what  was  i'  the  hert  o'  Mary  hersel'  when  she 
claspit  the  blessed  ane  to  her  bosom  !  " 

"  May  that  same  bairnie,  born  for  oor  remeiB> 
save  the  man  afore  he  's  ower  auld  to  repent !  " 
responded  the  father  in  a  broken  voice. 

"  For  what,"  moaned  Marion,  "  was  the  hert 
o'  a  mother  gien  me  .-'  What  was  I  made  a  woman 
for,  whase  life  is  for  the  beirin'  o'  bairns  to  the 
great  Father  o'  a',  gien  this  same  was  to  be  my 
reward  ?  Na,  na,  Lord,"  she  went  on,  interrupt- 
ing and  correcting  herself,  "  I  claim  naething  but 
thy  wull ;  and  ye  wouldna,  sure,  hae  me  think 
that  siclike  was  thy  wull,  for  I  wouldna  believe  't 
gien  an  angel  frae  h'aven  was  to  declare  't  to  me 
na,  no  gien  the  Bible  itsel'  were  to  haud  it  oot  to 
my  e'en  i'  the  plainst  o'  muckle  print !  " 


128 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER  XV 

It  would  be  too  much  to  say  that  the  hearts  of 
his  parents  took  no  pleasure  in  the  advancement 
of  their  son,  such  as  it  was.  I  suspect  the  mother 
was  glad  to  be  yet  proud  where  she  could  find 
no  happiness —  proud  in  the  love  that  lay  incor- 
ruptible in  her  being.  But  the  love  that  is  all 
^n  one  side,  though  it  may  be  stronger  than 
death,  can  hardly  be  so  strong  as  life  !  A  poor, 
maimed,  one-winged  thing,  it  cannot  soar  into 
any  region  of  bliss  —  conscious  bliss,  I  mean, 
while  indeed  it  soars  into  that  very  region  where 
God  himself  dwells,  and  there  partakes  of  the 
divine  sorrow  which  his  heartless  children  cause 
him  —  partakes  also  of  the  eternal  bliss  that  love 
is  in  herself,  even  while  all  response  is  still  denied 
her.  But  my  reader  may  well  believe  that  father 
nor  mother  dwelt  much  upon  what  their  neigh- 
bours called  James's  success  —  much  less  cared 
to  talk  about  it  with  them ;  they  would  have  felt 
it  but  hypocrisy,  so  long  as  hearty  and  genuine 
relations  were  so  much  worse  than  imperfect 
between  them.  Never  to  human  being,  save  the 
one  to  the  other,  and  that  now  but  very  seldom, 
9  129 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

did  they  allude  to  the  bitterness  which  their 
hearts  knew ;  that  would  have  seemed  equivalent 
to  disowning  their  son.  And  the  daughter  was 
gone  to  whom  the  mother  had  once  been  able  to 
bemoan  herself,  because  she  understood  and 
shared  in  their  trouble  !  Isobel's  heart  had  re- 
echoed every  involuntary  sigh  that  burst  from 
the  heart  of  her  mother,  loaded  with  its  empti- 
ness; for  she  too  loved  her  brother,  and  would 
gladly  have  laid  down  her  life  to  kindle  in  his 
heart  such  a  love  as  hers  to  their  parents. 

My  reader  may  now  understand  a  little  what 
sort  of  a  man  the  lad  James  Blatherwick  had 
grown  into.  He  left  Stonecross  for  the  Univer- 
sity with  scarce  a  backward  look,  with  nothing 
in  his  heart  but  eagerness  for  the  coming  conflict. 
Having  there  gained  one  of  the  highest  bursaries, 
he  donned  his  red  gown  with  never  a  thought  for 
the  son  of  the  poor  widow  who  had  competed 
along  with  him,  and  who,  in  consequence  of  his 
failure,  had  to  leave  his  ambition  behind  him 
and  go  into  a  shop  —  where,  however,  he  soon 
became  able  to  keep,  and  did  keep,  his  mother 
in  what,  to  her,  was  nothing  less  than  luxury, 
while  the  successful  competitor  —  well,  so  far  my 
reader  already  knows! 

When  James  returned  home  for  the  vacations, 
things  showed  themselves  unaltered,  between 
him  and  his  parents  ;  and  by  his  third  return  the 
130 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

heart  of  his  sister  had  ceased  to  beat  at  all  faster 
when  the  hour  of  his  arrival  drew  near.  For  she 
knew  that  he  would  but  shake  hands  with  her 
limply,  let  her  hand  drop,  and  in  a  moment  be 
set  down  to  read.  Before  the  time  for  him  to 
take  his  degree  arrived,  she  was  gone  to  the 
great  Father,  and  James  never  missed  or  be- 
moaned her.  He  left  that  all  to  his  mother. 
To  her  he  was  never  anything  more  or  less  than 
quite  civil,  while  she,  on  her  part,  never  asked 
him  to  do  anything  for  her.  He  came  and  went 
as  he  pleased,  cared  for  nothing  done  on  the 
farm  or  about  the  house,  and  seemed  in  his  own 
thoughts,  and  in  his  studies,  the  ardour  of  which 
had  shown  no  sign  of  intermission,  to  have 
enough  to  occupy  him.  He  had  grown  up  a 
powerful  as  well  as  a  handsome  youth,  and  had 
dropped  almost  every  sign  of  his  country  breed- 
ing, hardly  ever  deigned  a  word  in  his  original 
mother-dialect,  but  spoke  good  English  with  a 
Scotch  accent,  nor  had  any  of  the  abominable 
affectations  cultivated  by  not  a  few  of  such  as 
sought  to  repudiate  their  vernacular. 

His  father  had  not  to  discover  that  he  was  far 
too  fine  a  gentleman  to  show  any  interest  in 
agriculture,  or  put  out  his  hand  to  take  the 
least  share  in  the  oldest  and  most  dignified  of 
callings.  His  mother  continued  to  look  for- 
ward, although  with  fading  interest,  to  the  time 
131 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

when  he  should  be  the  messenger  of  a  gospel 
which  he  nowise  at  present  understood ;  but  his 
father  did  not  at  all  share  this  anticipation;  and 
his  mother  soon  came  to  know  that  to  hear  him 
preach  would  but  renew  and  intensify  the  misery 
to  which  she  had  become  a  little  accustomed  in 
their  ordinary  intercourse.  The  father  felt  that 
his  boy  had  either  left  him  a  long  way  off,  or 
had  never  come  near  him  any  time.  He  seemed 
to  see  him  afar  upon  some  mountain-top  of  con- 
scious or  imagined  superiority.  James,  as  one 
having  no  choice,  lived  at  what  custom  and  use 
called  homey  but  behaved  as  if  come  of  another 
breed  than  his  parents,  a  breed  that  had  with 
theirs  but  few  appreciable  points  of  contact. 
One  of  the  most  conventional  of  youths,  he  yet 
wrote  verses  in  secret,  and  worshipped  Byron  in 
his  hidden  closet.  What  he  wrote  he  seldom 
showed,  and  then  only  to  the  one  or  two  whom 
he  thought  fit  to  appreciate  its  formal  excel- 
lence. Perhaps  he  wrote  only  with  the  object 
of  proving  to  himself  that  he  could  do  that  also, 
and  in  so  far  probably  succeeded,  for  the  one 
thing  he  never  doubted  was  his  general  faculty. 
When  he  went  to  Edinburgh  to  learn  theology, 
forsooth,  he  was  an  accomplished  mathematician 
and  a  yet  better  classic,  with  some  predilections 
for  science,  and  a  very  small  knowledge  of  the 
same.  His  books  showed  for  the  two  former, 
132 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

and  for  the  latter,  an  occasional  attempt  to  set 
his  father  right  in  some  point  of  chemistry.  His 
aspirations  were  first,  to  show  himself  a  gentle- 
man in  matters  under  the  jurisdiction  of  that 
bubblehead  of  the  community  calling  itself 
Society — of  which  in  fact  he  knew  nothing; 
and  next,  to  have  his  eloquence  recognised  by 
the  public,  although  at  present  it  existed  only 
in  an  imagination  informed  by  ambition.  These 
were  the  two  devils,  or  rather  the  two  forms 
of  the  one  devil.  Vanity,  that  possessed  him. 
Hence,  although  in  part  unconsciously,  he 
looked  down  on  his  parents,  and  on  the  whole 
circumstance  of  his  present  existence,  as  un- 
worthy because  old-fashioned,  and  countrified, 
concerned  only  with  God's  earth  and  God's 
animals,  and  having  nothing  to  do  with  the 
shows  of  life.  And  yet  to  the  worthiest  of 
those  who  could  have  claimed  social  distinction, 
the  ways  of  life  in  the  house  of  his  parents 
would,  contrasted  with  their  son's  views  of  life, 
have  seemed  altogether  admirable.  To  such, 
the  homely,  simple,  not  quite  unfastidious  modes 
and  conditions  of  the  unassuming  homestead, 
would  have  appeared  not  a  little  attractive. 
But  James  took  little  interest  in  any  of  them, 
and  none  at  all  in  the  ways  of  the  humble  peo- 
ple, tradesmen  or  craftsmen,  of  the  neighbour- 
ing village.  He  never  felt  the  common  humanity 
^33 


SALTED    WITH   FIRE 

that  made  him  one  with  them,  and  did  not  in 
his  thoughts  associate  with  them.  Had  he 
turned  his  feeling  into  thinking  and  then  into 
words,  he  would  have  said,  "  I  cannot  help  be- 
ing the  son  of  a  farmer,  but  at  least  my  mother's 
father  was  a  doctor;  and  had  I  been  consulted, 
my  father  should  have  been  at  least  an  officer 
in  one  of  his  majesty's  services,  naval  or  military, 
and  my  mother  the  daughter  of  such  an  officer  !  " 
The  root  of  his  folly  lay  in  the  groundless  self- 
esteem  of  the  fellow,  fostered,  I  think,  by  a  cer- 
tain literature  which  fed  the  notion,  if  indeed  it 
did  not  plainly  inculcate  it  as  a  duty,  of  rising 
in  the  world  —  of  gaining  that  praise  of  men 
which  seems  to  so  many  the  patent  of  nobility, 
but  which  the  man  whom  we  call  Tlie  Saviour', 
and  who  professed  to  know  the  secret  of  Life, 
warned  his  followers  they  must  not  seek,  if  they 
would  be  the  children  of  the  Father  who  claimed 
them  as  his.  Its  books  taught  the  pursuit  of 
knowledge,  the  saving  of  money,  and  the  acqui- 
sition of  influence  —  not  the  doing  of  one's  duty 
in  whatever  condition  he  found  himself,  as  the 
only  way  to  become  such  as  God  intended  us 
to  be. 

I  have  said  enough,  perhaps  too  much,  of  this 

most  uninteresting  of  men  !    How  he  came  to  be 

born  such,  is  not  for  my  speculation ;    had  he 

remained  such,  his  story  would  not  have  been 

134 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

writing;  how  he  became  something  better  it  is 
now  my  task  to  try  to  tell. 

I  have  been  led  to  the  foregoing  remarks  on 
the  minister's  past  by  my  episode  of  the  talk  of 
his  parents  as  they  lay  in  bed  on  one  occasion, 
recalling  an  incident  of  their  experience  con- 
cerning the  boy:  I  now  return  to  the  talk  that 
followed  that  conversation. 

They  had  again  lain  silent  for  a  while,  but  at 
length  broke  words  from  their  silence :  — 

"  I  was  jist  thinkin',  Peter,"  said  Marion, 
"  o'  the  last  time  we  spak'  thegither  about  the 
laddie  —  it  maun  be  nigh  sax  year  sin  syne, 
I  'm  thinkin'." 

"  'Deed  ye  may  be  richt,  Mirran,"  replied  her 
spouse.  "It's  no  sic  a  cheery  subjec'  'at  we 
should  hae  muckle  to  say  to  ane  anither  anent 
it !  He  's  a  man  noo,  an'  weel  luikit  upo',  but, 
eh,  it  mak's  unco  little  differ  to  his  parents ! 
He 's  jist  as  dour  as  ever,  and  as  far  as  man 
could  weel  be  frae  them  he  cam'  o' !  —  never  a 
word  to  the  ane  or  the  ither  o'  's !  Gien  we  war 
twa  dowgs,  he  couldna  hae  less  to  say  till 's,  but 
micht  weel  hae  mair !  I's  warran'  Frostie  says 
mair  in  ae  half-hoor  to  his  tyke,  nor  Jamie  has 
said  to  you  or  me  sin'  first  he  gaed  to  the 
college !  " 

"  Bairns  is  whiles  a  queer  kin'  o'  a  blessin' !  " 
remarked  the  mother.  "  But,  eh,  Peter !  it 's 
^35 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

what  may  lie  ahint  the  silence  that  frichts 
me!" 

"  Lass,  ye  're  frichtin'  me!  What  div  ye  mean  ?  " 

"  Ow  naething !  "  returned  Marion,  bursting 
into  tears.  "  But  it  was  a'  at  ance  borne  in  upo' 
me,  that  there  maun  be  something  to  accoont  for 
the  thing.  At  the  same  time  I  daurna  speir  at 
God  himsel'  what  that  thing  micht  be.  For 
there  *s  something  waur  noo,  and  has  been  for 
some  time,  than  ever  there  was  afore !  He  has 
sic  a  luik,  as  gien  he  saw  nor  heard  naething  but 
ae  thing,  and  that  ae  thing  keepit  on  inside  him, 
and  wouldna  wheesht.  It's  an  awfu'  thing  to 
say  o'  a  mither's  ain  laddie ;  and  to  hae  said  it 
only  to  my  ain  man,  and  the  father  o'  the  laddie, 
mak's  my  hert  like  to  brak  !  — It 's  as  gien  I  had 
been  fause  to  my  ain  flesh  and  blude  but  to 
think  it  o'  him  !    Eh,  Peter,  what  can  it  be  !  " 

"  Ou  jist  maybe  naething  at  a'.  Maybe  he  's 
in  love,  and  the  lass  winna  hear  till  him !  " 

"  Na,  Peter;  love  gars  a  man  luik  up,  no  doon 
at  his  ain  feet !  It  gars  him  fling  his  heid  back, 
and  luik  oot  afore  him  —  no  in  at  his  ain  inside! 
It  mak's  a  man  straucht  i'  the  back,  strong  i'  the 
airm,  and  bauld  i'  the  hert.  —  Didna  it  you, 
Peter?" 

"  Maybe  it  did ;  I  dinna  min'  vera  weel.  But 
I  see  it  can  hardly  be  love  wi'  the  lad.  Still, 
even  his  paurants  maun  tak'  tent  o'  jeedgin'  — 
136 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

specially  ane  o'  the  Lord's  ministers — maybe 
ane  o'  the  Lord's  elec' ! " 

"  It 's  awfu'  to  think  —  I  daurna  say  't  —  I 
daurna  maist  think  the  words  o'  't,  Peter,  but  it 
Willi  cry  oot  i'  my  vera  hert !  —  Steik  the  door, 
Peter  —  and  ticht,  that  no  a  stray  stirk  may  hear 
me !  —  Was  a  minister  o'  the  gospel  ever  a 
heepocrite,  Peter?  —  like  ane  o'  the  auld  scribes 
and  Pharisees,  Peter?  —  Wadna  it  be  ower 
terrible,  Peter,  to  be  permittit?  —  Gien  our  ain 
only  son  was  —  " 

But  here  she  broke  down ;  she  could  not 
finish  the  frightful  sentence.  The  farmer  left  his 
bed,  and  sat  on  a  chair  by  the  side  of  it.  The 
next  moment  he  sank  on  his  knees,  and,  hiding 
his  face  in  his  hands,  groaned,  as  from  a  thicket 
of  torture,  — 

"  God  in  h'aven,  hae  mercy  upo'  the  haill  lot 
o'  us." 

Then  he  went  as  if  unconscious  of  what  he  did, 
wandering  from  the  room,  down  to  the  kitchen, 
and  out  to  the  barn  on  his  bare  feet,  closing  the 
door  of  the  house  behind  him.  In  the  barn 
he  threw  himself  face  downward  on  a  heap  of 
loose  straw,  and  there  lay  motionless,  while  his 
wife  wept  alone  in  her  bed  and  hardly  missed 
her  husband.  It  required,  indeed,  no  reflection 
on  her  part  to  understand  where  he  had  gone, 
and  what  he  did:  he  was  crying  like  Lear,  in 
137 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

the  bitterness  of  his  wounded  heart,  to  the  Father 
of  fathers. 

"  God,  ye  're  a  father  yersel',"  he  groaned 
from  the  deepest,  silentest  nook  of  his  soul, 
"  and  sae  ye  ken  hoo  it's  rivin'  at  my  hert !  — 
Na,  Lord,  ye  dinna  ken ;  for  ye  never  had  a 
doobt  aboot  your  son !  —  Na,  I  'm  no  blamin' 
Jamie,  Lord ;  for  ye  ken  weel  I  ken  naething 
at  a' aboot  him;  he  never  opened  the  buik  o' 
his  hert  to  me!  Oh,  God,  grant  that  he  hae 
naething  to  hide;  but  gien  he  has,  Lord,  pluck 
him  oot  o'  the  glaur,  and  latna  him  stick  there. 
I  kenna  hoo  to  shape  my  petition,  for  I'm  a'  i' 
the  dark;  but  deliver  him  some  gait,  Lord,  I 
pray  thee,  for  his  mither's  sake  !  —  ye  ken  what 
she  is !  —  /  dinna  coont  for  onything,  but  ye 
ken  Jier  !  —  she  's  ane  o'  the  subjec's  o'  yer  ain 
kingdom !  —  Lord,  deliver  the  hert  o'  her  frae 
the  awfu'est  o'  a'  her  fears.  —  Lord,  a  hypo- 
crite !  a  Judas-man  !  " 

What  more  he  said,  I  cannot  tell;  somehow 
this  much  reached  my  ears.  He  remained  there 
hour  after  hour,  pleading  with  the  great  Father 
for  his  son,  his  thought  now  lost  in  dull  fatigue, 
and  now  uttering  itself  in  groans  for  lack  of 
words,  until  at  length  the  dawn  looked  in  on 
the  night-weary  earth,  and  into  the  sorrow-laden 
heart  of  the  suffering  parent,  bringing  with  it 
a  comfort  he  did  not  seek  to  understand. 


SALTED  WITH  FIRE 


CHAPTER  XVI 

But  it  brought  no  solace  to  the  mind  of  his 
weak  and  guilty  son.  He  had  succeeded  once 
more  in  temporarily  stifling  his  conscience  with 
false  comfort,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  the  house- 
less, who  look  up  to  no  watchful  eye  over  them, 
and  whose  covering  is  narrower  than  they  can 
wrap  themselves  in.  Ah,  those  sleepless  nights 
out  in  the  eternal  cold  !  So  cold  was  he,  that 
if  he  had  seen  his  mother  come  down  in  the 
morning  with  her  dim  eyes,  he  would  never 
have  asked  himself  what  could  be  her  trouble ; 
would  not  have  had  sympathy  enough  even  to 
see  that  she  was  unhappy ;  would  never  have 
suspected  himself  the  cause  of  her  red  eyes  and 
aching  head  !  At  this  time  the  only  good  thing 
in  him  was  the  uneasiness  of  his  heart,  the 
trouble  of  his  mind  ;  there  was  not  good  enough 
to  make  him  desire  to  share  his  pain  with  any 
friend.  But  there  was  no  way  round  the  purify- 
ing fire ;  he  could  not  escape  it ;  he  must  pass 
through  it ! 


139 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER  XVII 

How  little  knows  the  world  what  a  power  among 
men  is  the  man  who  simply  and  really  believes, 
hoping  in  Him  who  came  to  save  the  world  from 
its  sins  !  He  may  be  neither  wise  nor  prudent; 
he  may  be  narrow  and  dim-sighted  even  in  the 
things  he  loves  best;  they  may  promise  him 
much  that  he  is  unable  to  claim  from  them,  and 
yield  him  therefore  but  a  poor  fragment  of  the 
joy  that  might  be  his ;  he  may  represent  them 
to  others  so  that  they  wear  no  attractive  hues, 
clothe  themselves  in  no  word  of  power ;  and  yet, 
if  he  has  but  that  love  to  his  neighbour  which 
love  to  his  God  must  awake,  he  is  always  a  re- 
deeming, reconciling  influence  among  his  fellows 
—  such  of  them,  namely,  as,  knowing  less  and 
hoping  less  than  he,  have  yet  the  same  simple 
heart,  open  to  the  influence  of  the  true  Human, 
which  is  in  reality  the  true  Divine.  The  Rob- 
ertsons were  genial  of  heart,  loving  and  tender 
toward  man  or  woman  that  needed  them ;  their 
door  was  always  on  the  latch  for  such  to  enter 
and  find  help.  If  the  parson  insisted  on  the 
wrath  of  God  against  sin,  he  did  not  fail  to  give 
140 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

assurance  of  His  tenderness  toward  such  as  had 
fallen  in  the  greatness  of  their  way.  Together 
the  godly  pair  persuaded  Isobel  of  the  eager 
forgiveness  of  the  Son  of  Man.  They  showed 
her  that  he  could  not  drive  from  him  the  very 
chief  of  sinners,  but  tenderly  loved — nothing 
less  than  loved —  anyone  who,  having  sinned,  re- 
pented and  returned  to  the  Father.  She  would 
doubtless,  they  said,  have  to  bear  her  trespass 
in  the  eyes  of  unforgiving  women,  but  he  would 
lift  her  high,  and  receive  her  into  the  home  of 
the  glad-hearted,  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

But  poor  Isy,  who  regarded  her  fault  as  both 
against  God  and  the  man  who  had  misled  her, 
and  was  sic"k  at  the  thought  of  being  such  as  she 
judged  herself,  said  that  nothing  God  himself 
could  do  could  ever  restore  her, — could  ever 
make  it  that  she  had  not  fallen;  and  nothing  less 
than  such  a  contradiction,  such  an  impossibility, 
could  make  her  clean.  God  might  be  ready  to 
forgive  her,  but  he  could  not  love  her.  Jesus 
might  have  made  satisfaction  to  him  for  her  sin, 
but  that  made  no  difference  in  her.  She  was 
troubled  that  Jesus  should  have  so  suffered,  but 
how  could  that  give  her  back  her  purity,  or  the 
peace  of  mind  she  once  had?  That  at  least  was 
gone  for  ever !  The  life  that  lay  in  front  of  her 
took  the  form  of  an  unchanging  gloom,  a  desert 
region  whence  the  sweet  gladness  had  withered, 
141 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

and  whence  could  issue  no  purifying  wind  of  God 
to  blow  from  her  the  airs  of  the  grave  by  which 
she  seemed  even  physically  haunted.  Never  to 
all  eternity  could  she  be  innocent  again.  Life 
was  no  more  worth  doing  anything  in.  It  had 
no  interest  for  her  now.  She  was,  and  must  re- 
main just  what  she  was,  for,  alas,  she  could  not 
cease  to  be ! 

Such  thoughts  had  at  one  period  ceaselessly 
ravaged  her  life,  but  had  for  some  time  been 
growing  duller  and  deader ;  now  again,  revived 
by  goodness  and  sympathy,  they  had  resumed 
their  gnawing  and  scorching,  and  she  grew  yet 
more  hateful  to  herself.  Even  those  who  thus 
befriended  and  comforted  her,  she  thought, 
could  never  cease  to  regard  her  as  what  they 
knew  she  was.  But  strange  to  say,  with  this 
revival  of  her  sufferings,  came  also  a  requicken- 
ing  of  her  long-dormant  imagination,  cherished, 
doubtless,  by  the  peace  that  surrounded  her. 
First  her  dreams,  then  her  broodings,  began  to  be 
haunted  with  sweet  embodiments.  As  if  the 
agonised  question  of  the  guilty  Claudius  were 
answered  to  her,  as  if  to  assure  her  that  there 
was  "  rain  enough  in  the  sweet  heavens  to  wash 
her  white  as  snow,"  she  would  wake  from  a 
dream  where  she  stood  in  blessed  nakedness  with 
a  deluge  of  cool,  comforting  rain  pouring  upon 
her  from  the  sweetness  of  those  heavens  —  to 
142 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

fall  asleep  again,  and  dream  of  a  soft  strong  west 
wind  blowing  from  her  the  evil  odours  that 
seemed  to  have  haunted  her  for  years  as  the 
blood  of  Duncan  persecuted  the  nostrils  of  the 
wretched  Lady  Macbeth.  And  every  night  to 
her  sinful  bosom  came  back  the  soft  innocent 
hands  of  the  child  she  had  lost.  But  ever  and 
again  she  would  dream  that  she  was  Hagar,  who 
had  cast  her  child  away,  and  was  fleeing  from 
the  sight  of  his  death,  —  only  to  wake  and  know 
that  she  had  indeed  fled,  and  had  returned  and 
sought  him  in  vain.  And  more  than  once  she 
dreamed  that  an  angel  came  to  her,  and  went 
out  to  look  for  him ;  but  had  returned  only  to 
lay  him  in  her  arms  grievously  mangled  by  some 
horrid  beast,  and  she  woke  with  the  cry,  "  My 
God  !  "  — the  prevailing  prayer  of  the  labouring 
and  heavy-laden,  which  went  where  every  such 
prayer  must  go,  —  weeping,  but  comforted. 

When  the  first  few  days  of  her  sojourn  with 
the  good  Samaritans  were  over,  and  she  had 
gathered  strength  enough  to  feel  that  she  ought 
no  longer  to  be  burdensome  to  them,  but  must 
look  for  work,  they  positively  refused  to  let  her 
leave  them  before  her  spirit  also  had  regained 
some  vital  tone,  and  was  able  to  "  live  a  little ;  " 
to  which  end  they  set  themselves  to  revive  in 
her  the  hope  of  finding  her  lost  child,  setting 
inquiry  on  foot,  in  every  direction,  and  promis- 
H3 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

ing  to  tell  her  the  very  moment  her  presence 
began  to  cause  them  inconvenience. 

"  Let  you  go,  child  ! "  exclaimed  her  hostess ; 
"  God  forbid !  Go  you  shall  not  until  you  go 
for  your  own  sake ;  you  cannot  go  for  ours  !  " 

"  But  I  'm  such  a  useless  burden  to  you  !  " 

"  Was  the  Lord  a  burden  to  Mary  and  Laza- 
rus, think  ye,  my  poor  bairn?"  rejoined  Mrs. 
Robertson. 

"  Don't,  ma'am,  please,  compare  me  to  Jiim  !  " 
sobbed  Isy. 

"  '  Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  to  one  of  the  least  of 
these,  ye  did  it  to  me ' !  "  she  returned. 

"  That  doesna  apply  to  me,  ma'am,"  sobbed 
Isy.     "  I  'm  nane  o'  his  !  " 

"Who  is  then?  Who  was  it  he  came  to  save? 
Are  you  not  one  of  his  lost  sheep?  Are  you 
not  weary  and  heavy-laden?  Will  you  never 
let  him  feel  at  home  with  you?  Are  j/ou  to 
tell  him  who  he  is  to  love  and  who  he  is  n't, 
who  he  is  to  count  his,  and  who  are  not  good 
enough?" 

Isy  was  quiet  for  a  while,  and  silent  longer  than 
she  was  quiet.  The  foundations  of  her  coming 
peace  were  being  laid  wider  and  dug  deeper. 

She  still  found  it  impossible,  from  the  dis- 
ordered state  of  her  mind  at  the  time,  to  give 
any  notion  of  whereabout  she  had  been  when 
she  laid  her  child  down,  and,  leaving  him,  could 
144 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

not  again  find  him.  And  Maggie,  who  had 
him,  loving  him  passionately  and  believing  him 
wilfully  abandoned,  had  no  desire  to  discover 
one  who  could  claim  him  and  was  unworthy  to 
have  him.  For  a  long  time,  therefore,  neither 
she  nor  her  father  ever  talked,  or  encouraged 
talk,  about  him ;  whence  certain  questing  busy- 
bodies  began  to  snuff  and  give  tongue.  It  was 
all  very  well,  they  said,  for  the  cobbler  and  his 
Maggie  to  pose  as  benefactors ;  but  whose  was 
the  child?  But  his  growth  went  on  all  the 
same,  and  however  the  talk  might  seem  to 
concern  him,  happily  it  never  reached  him. 
Nor,  Maggie  flattered  herself,  would  it  ever  in 
this  world  reach  and  trouble  him;  it  would  die 
away  in  the  void,  as  dies  a  fallen  wave  against 
the  heedless  shore.  Yet,  in  the  not  so  distant 
city  a  loving  woman  was  weeping  and  pining 
for  lack  of  him.  Her  conduct,  in  the  eyes  of 
the  minister  and  his  wife,  was  not  merely  blame- 
less, but  sweetly  and  manifestly  true,  constantly 
yielding  fuel  to  the  love  that  encompassed  her. 
Both  mentally  and  spiritually  she  seemed  to 
them  growing  rapidly,  but  to  have  lost  all  hope 
for  herself.  Deeper  in  her  soul,  and  nearer  the 
root  of  her  misery  than  even  the  loss  of  her 
child,  lay  the  character  and  conduct  of  the  man 
to  whom  her  attachment  was  inextinguishable. 
His  apostasy  from  and  neglect  of  her,  and  with 
1°  H5 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

the  constantly  gnawing  sense  of  her  pollution, 
burned  at  the  bands  of  her  life ;  and  her  friends 
soon  began  to  fear  that  she  was  on  the  verge 
of  a  slow  downward  slide  upon  which  there  is 
seldom  any  turning. 

Now  the  parson  and  his  wife  had  long  been  on 
friendliest  terms  with  the  farmer  and  his  wife  of 
Stonecross ;  and,  brooding  on  the  condition  and 
needs  of  their  guest,  it  was  natural  that  the 
thought  of  Mrs.  Blatherwick  should  occur  to 
them  as  one  who  might  be  able  to  render  them 
help  in  their  perplexity.  Difficulties  were  in  the 
way,  however,  chiefly  that  of  conveying  a  true 
conception  of  the  nature  and  character  of  the 
woman  in  whom  they  desired  her  interest,  but  if 
she  once  saw  her,  there  could  be  no  fear  of  the 
result;  while,  received  as  an  inmate  at  the  farm, 
she  was  certain  to  leave  it  without  having  in  any 
way  compromised  them  :  they  were  confident  she 
would  never  belie  the  character  they  were  pre- 
pared to  give  her.  Neither  was  there  any  one 
at  the  farm  for  whom  it  was  possible  to  dread 
intercourse  with  her,  seeing  that  since  the  death 
of  their  only  daughter,  about  two  years  ago, 
they  had  not  had  a  servant  in  the  house.  It  was 
concluded  therefore  between  the  two  that  Mr. 
Robertson  should  go  to  their  friends,  and  tell 
them  all  he  knew  about  Isy,  and  say  everything 
he  could  for  her. 

146 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

It  was  a  morning  in  the  decline  of  summer, 
the  corn  nearly  full  grown,  but  still  green,  with- 
out sign  of  the  coming  gold  of  perfection,  when 
the  minister  mounted  the  top  of  the  coach,  to 
wait  silent  and  a  little  anxious  for  the  coachman 
to  appear  from  the  office,  thrust  the  waybill  into 
the  pocket  of  his  huge  greatcoat,  gather  his 
reins,  and  climb  to  his  perch.  A  journey  of 
four  hours,  through  a  not  very  interesting  coun- 
try, but  along  a  splendid  road,  carried  him  to 
the  village  where  the  soutar  lived,  and  where 
James  Blatherwick  was  parson.  There  a  walk 
of  about  three  miles  awaited  him,  —  a  long  and 
somewhat  weary  way  to  the  town  minister,  — 
accustomed  indeed  to  tramping  the  hard  pave- 
ments, but  not  to  long  walks  unbroken  by  calls. 
Climbing  at  last  the  hill  on  which  the  farmhouse 
stood,  he  caught  sight  of  Peter  Blatherwick  in  a 
neighbouring  field  of  barley  stubble,  with  the 
reins  of  a  pair  of  powerful  Clydesdales  in  his 
hands,  wrestling  with  the  earth  as  it  strove  to 
wrench  from  his  hold  the  stilts  of  the  plough 
whose  share  and  coulter  he  was  guiding  through 
it.  Peter's  delight  was  in  the  open  air,  and 
hard  work  in  it.  He  was  as  far  above  the  vulgar 
idea  that  a  man  rises  in  the  social  scale  by  ceas- 
ing to  labour  with  his  hands,  as  he  was  from 
imagining  that  a  man  rose  in  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  when  he  was  made  a  bishop. 
147 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

As  to  his  higher  nature,  the  farmer  believed 
in  God,  —  that  is,  he  tried  to  do  what  God 
required  of  him,  and  was  thus  on  the  straight 
road  to  know  him.  He  talked  little  about 
religion,  and  was  no  partisan.  When  he  heard 
people  advocating  or  opposing  the  claims  of  this 
or  that  division  of  the  Church,  he  would  turn 
away  with  a  smile  such  as  men  yield  to  the  talk 
of  children.  He  had  no  time,  he  would  say  to 
his  wife,  for  that  kind  of  thing:  he  had  enough 
to  do,  he  said,  to  practise  a  little  of  what  was 
beyond  dispute. 

Peter  was  a  reading  man,  one  who  not  merely 
drank  at  every  open  source  he  came  across,  but 
thought  over  what  he  read,  and  was,  therefore,  a 
man  of  true  intelligence,  regarded  by  his  neigh- 
bours with  more  than  ordinary  respect.  He  had 
been  the  first  in  the  district  to  lay  hold  of  the 
discoveries  in  chemistry  applicable  to  agricul- 
ture, and  had  made  use  of  them,  with  notable 
results,  upon  his  own  farm ;  setting  thus  an 
example  which  his  neighbours  were  so  ready 
to  follow  that  the  region,  nowise  remarkable  for 
its  soil,  soon  became  remarkable  for  its  crops. 
The  most  noteworthy  thing  in  him,  however, 
was  his  humanity,  and  the  strength  of  his  family 
affections,  though  there  was  no  self-consciousness 
of  the  fact,  neither  show  of  it  in  his  behaviour. 
He  had  a  strong  drawing,  not  to  his  immediate 
148 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

relations  only,  but  to  all  of  his  blood,  and  they 
were  not  few,  for  he  came  of  an  ancient  family, 
which  had  been  long  settled  in  that  neighbour- 
hood. In  worldly  affairs  he  was  well  to  do, 
having  added  a  little  to  the  little  his  father  had 
left  him ;  but  he  was  no  lover  of  money,  for  he 
was  open-handed  even  to  his  wife,  upon  whom 
your  money-grub  generally  exercises  first  his 
parsimony.  There  was,  however,  no  great  need 
to  spend  at  Stonecross,  and  less  temptation  from 
without;  living  as  well  as  simple  heart  could 
desire,  the  farm  itself  was  equal  to  the  supply  of 
much  the  greater  part  of  their  daily  wants. 

In  disposition  he  was  a  good-humoured,  even 
merry  man,  with  a  playful  answer  almost  always 
ready. 

The  minister  waved  a  greeting  to  the  farmer, 
and  went  on  to  the  house,  which  stood  with  its 
low  gable  toward  him.  Late  summer  still  lorded 
it  in  the  land  ;  merely  a  few  fleecy  clouds  shared 
the  blue  of  the  sky  with  the  ripening  sun ;  and 
on  the  hot  ridges  the  air  pulsed  and  trembled 
like  vaporised  layers  of  mother-of-pearl. 

At  the  end  of  the  idle  lever,  no  sleepy  old 
horse  was  now  making  his  monotonous  rounds ; 
his  radiance,  born  of  age  and  sunshine,  was  now 
quenched  in  the  dark  of  the  noonday  stall ;  but 
the  peacock  still  strutted  among  the  ricks,  as 
conscious  of  his  glorious  plumage,  as  regardless 
149 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

of  the  ugliness  of  his  feet,  as  ever ;  now  and  then 
checking  the  rhythmic  movement  of  his  neck, 
undulating  green  and  blue,  to  scratch  the  ground 
with  those  ugly  feet,  and  dart  his  ugly  beak  spite- 
fully at  the  grain  they  exposed,  or  from  the 
steeple  of  his  lifted  throat  to  utter  his  self- 
satisfaction  in  a  hideous  cry. 

In  the  gable  before  him,  he  passed  a  low 
window,  through  which  he  had  a  glimpse  of  the 
pretty,  old-fashioned  parlour  within,  and,  going 
round  to  the  front,  there  knocked  at  the  nearest 
of  two  green-painted  doors. 

Mrs.  Blatherwick  came  herself  to  open  it,  and, 
finding  who  it  was  that  knocked,  —  of  all  men 
she  knew  the  most  welcome  in  her  present 
mood,  —  received  him  with  a  hearty  gladness. 

For  was  he  not  a  minister?  and  was  not  he 
who  caused  all  the  trouble  she  had  a  minister 
also?  She  was  not,  indeed,  going  to  open  her 
heart  and  let  him  see  into  its  sorrow ;  for  her 
son  was  far  more  to  her  than  any  but  her  hus- 
band, and  to  confess  him  the  cause  of  the  least 
anxiety  to  her,  would  be  faithless  and  treach- 
erous; still  the  unexpected  appearance  of  Mr. 
Robertson  was  a  comfort  to  her,  and  like  the 
dawn  of  a  winter  morning  upon  her  long  night 
of  pain. 

She  led  him  into  the  low-ceiled  parlour,  into 
the  green  gloom  of  the  big  hydrangea  that  filled 
150 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

the  front  window,  and  tlic  ancient  scent  of  the 
withered  rose-leaves  in  the  gorgeous  China-bowl 
on  the  green,  gold-bordered  table-cover.  The 
minister,  after  a  few  kind  commonplaces,  sat 
for  a  moment  silently  pondering  how  to  begin. 
But  he  did  not  ponder  long,  for  his  way  was  to 
rush  headlong  at  whatever  seemed  to  harbour 
a  lion,  and  come  at  once  to  the  death-grapple. 

Marion  Blatherwick  was  a  good-looking 
woman,  with  a  quiet  strong  expression,  and 
sweet  grey  eyes.  The  daughter  of  a  country- 
surgeon,  she  had  been  left  an  orphan  without 
means ;  but  was  so  generally  respected  that 
every  one  said  Mr.  Blatherwick  had  never  done 
better  than  when  he  married  her.  There  had 
very  early  grown  up  a  sense  of  distance  between 
her  and  her  son,  and  now  her  heart  would 
sometimes  go  longing  after  him  as  if  he  were 
one  of  those  who  died  in  their  infancy  and 
who  seemed  altogether  beyond  her  reach.  But 
she  never  had  felt  separated  from  her  daughter  ; 
although  she  too  was  gone  bej/ond  the  range  of 
eye  or  ear,  there  was  no  division,  only  distance, 
between  them. 

"  I  have  taken  the  liberty,  Mrs.  Blatherwick, 
of  coming  to  ask  your  help  in  a  great  per- 
plexity," began  Mr.  Robertson,  with  an  em- 
barrassment she  had  never  seen  in  him  before, 
which  bewildered  her  not  a  little. 
151 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  Weel,  sir,  it 's  an  honour  yc  do  me,  —  a 
great  honour,  for  which  I  hae  to  thank  ye,  I  'm 
sure  !  "  she  answered. 

"  Bide  ye,  mem,  till  ye  hear  what  it  is,"  re- 
turned the  minister.  "  We  hae  a  puir  lass  at 
hame,  'at  my  wife  and  mysel'  hae  taen  a  great 
interest  in,  and  we  're  maist  at  oor  wits'  end 
what  to  do  wi'  her  neist.  She  's  sair  oot  o*  hert, 
and  oot  o'  health,  and  oot  o'  houp,  and  in  fac' 
she  Stan's  in  desperate  need  o'  a  cheenge." 

"  Weel,  that  ouchtna  to  be  a  difeeculty  to 
mak'  a  wark  aboot  atween  auld  frien's  like 
oorsel's,  Maister  Robertson.  —  Ye  wad  hae  us 
tak'  her  in  for  a  whilie,  till  she  luiks  up  a  bit, 
puir   thing!  —  Hoo  auld  may  she  be?" 

"  She  can  hardly  be  mair  nor  twenty,  or 
aboot  that, — sic  like  as  your  ain  bonny  lassie 
would  hae  been  by  this  time,  gien  she  had 
ripened  here,  i'stead  o'  gaein'  yon'er  to  the  gran 
finishin'  schule  o'  the  just  made  perfec'.  Weel 
min'  I  upo'  her  bonny  face !  And,  'deed,  this 
ane's  nae  that  unlike  her!" 

"  Eh,  sir,  fess  her  to  me  as  fest  as  ye  can  ! 
My  hert 's  waitin'  for  her  a' ready!  Her  mither 
maunna  hae  to  lose  her !  " 

"  She  has  nae  mither,  puir  thing !  And  ye 
maun  do  naething  in  a  hurry  ;  I  maun  tell  ye 
aboot  her  first !  " 

"  I  'm  content  'at  she 's  a  frien'  o'  yours,  sir. 
152 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

I  ken  wee!  ye  would  never  hae  me  tak'  intill  ma 
hoose  ane  that  wasna  fit,  —  and  a'  the  lads 
aboot  the   place   frae   mornin'  till   nicht !  " 

"Indeed  she  is  a  frien'  o'  mine,  mem;  and 
I  hae  nae  dreid  o'  onything  happening  ye 
wouldna  like.  She  's  in  ovver  sair  trouble  to 
be  feart  at.  The  fac'  is,  she  's  had  a  terrible 
misfortun !  " 

The  good  woman  started,  drew  herself  up  a 
little,  and  said  hurriedly,  — 

"  There  's  no  a  wean,  is  there  ?  " 

"  'Deed  is  there,  mem !  —  but  pairt  o'  the 
meesery  is,  the  bairn's  disappeart;  and  she's 
brakin'  her  heart  aboot  him.  She  's  maist  oot  o' 
her  min',  mem.  No  that  she  's  onything  but 
perfec'ly  reasonable,  and  gies  never  a  grain  o' 
trouble.  I  canna  doobt  she  '11  be  a  great  help  to 
ye,  and  that  ilka  minute  ye  see  fit  to  lat  her  bide. 
But  she  's  jist  huntit  wi'  the  idea  that  the  bairnie  's 
gane,  —  that  she's  left  him,  she  kensna  whaur. 
Verily,  mem,  she  's  ane  o'  the  lambs  o'  the  Lord's 
ain  flock." 

"  That 's  no  the  w'y  the  lambs  o'  /ii's  flock  be- 
have themsel's.  I  doobt,  sir,  ye  're  lattin'  yer  hert 
rin  awa'  wi'  yer  jeedgment." 

"  I  hae  aye  coontit  Mary  Magdalen  ane  o'  the 

Lord's  ainyowies,  that  he  left  the  lave  to  luik  for; 

this  is  sic  anither.     Gien  ye  help  him  to  come 

upon    her,   ye  '11    carry    her    hame    atween  ye 

153 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

rej'icin*.  And  ye  min'  hoo  he  stude  atween  ana 
far  waur  nor  her,  and  the  ill  men  that  would 
fain  hae  shamet  her,  and  sent  them  oot  like  sae 
mony  tykes  —  thae  gran'  Pharisees  —  wi'  their 
tails  tuckit  in  atween  their  hin'  legs !  —  Sair 
affrontit  they  war,  doobtless.  —  But  I  maun  be 
gaein',  mem,  for  we  're  no  vera  like  to  agree. 
My  Maister  's  no  o'  the  same  min'  as  you,  mem, 
aboot  sic  affairs  —  sae  I  maun  gang.  But  I 
would  just  remin'  ye,  mem,  that  she  's  at  this 
present  i'  my  hoose,  wi'  my  wife,  and  my  wee  bit 
lassie,  that  hings  aboot  her  as  gien  she  was  an 
angel  come  doon  to  see  the  bonny  place  this 
warl  luiks  frae  up  there.  Eh,  puir  lammie;  the 
stanes  ought  to  be  foewer  upo'  thae  hill-sides  !  " 

"  What  for  that,  Maister  Robertson?  " 

"  'Cause  there  's  sae  mony  whaur  human  herts 
ought  to  be.  Come  awa',  doggie,"  he  added, 
rising. 

"  Dear  me,  sir !  haena  ye  a  grain  o'  patience 
to  waur  upon  a  puir  menseless  body  like  me?  " 
cried  Marion,  wringing  her  hands  in  dismay. 
"To  think  /sud  be  nice  whaur  my  Lord  was 
sae  free !  " 

"Aye,"  returned  the  minister,  "he  was  as 
clean  as  ever,  wi'  mony  ane  sic  like  as  her  inside 
the  hert  o'  him  !  '  Gang  awa',  and  dinna  do  the 
like  again,'  was  a'  he  said  to  that  ane !  —  and 
ye  may  weel  be  sure  she  never  did  !  And  now 
154 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

she  and  Mary  are  followin'  \vi'  yer  ain  Isy,  i' 
the  vera  futsteps  o'  the  great  shepherd,  throuw 
the  gowany  leys  o'  the  New  Jerusalem  — whaur 
it  may  be  they  ca'  her  Isy  yet,  as  they  ca'  this 
ane  I  hae  to  gang  hame  till." 

"  Ca' they  her  tJiat,  sir?  Eh,  gar  her  come, 
gar  her  come !  I  wud  fain  cry  upo'  Isy  ance 
mair,  meanin  her  to  come  !  —  Sit  ye  doon,  sir, 
shame  upon  me  !  —  and  tak'  something  efter  yer 
lang  walk.  —  Will  ye  no  bide  the  nicht  \vi'  's, 
and  gang  back  by  the  mornin's  coch?  " 

"  I  will  that,  mem  —  and  thank  ye  kindly  ! 
I  'm  a  bit  fatiguit  wi'  the  hill-road,  and  the  walk 
a  wee  langer  than  I  'm  used  till.  —  Ye  maun  hae 
pity  upo'  my  kittle  temper,  mem,  and  no  drive 
me  to  ower  muckle  shame  o'  mysel'  !  "  he  con- 
cluded, wiping  his  forehead. 

"  And  to  think,"  cried  his  hostess,  "  that  my 
hard  hert  should  be  the  cause  o'  sic  a  word  frae 
ane  o'  the  Lord's  servan's  that  serve  him  day 
and  nicht !  I  beg  yer  pardon,  and  that  richt 
heumbly,  sir !  I  daurna  say  I  '11  never  do  the 
like  again,  but  I  'm  no  sae  likely  to  transgress  a 
second  time  as  the  first.  Lord,  keep  the  doors 
o'  my  lips,  that  words  comena  thouchtless  oot, 
and  shame  me  and  them  that  hear  me !  —  I 
maun  gang  and  see  aboot  yer  denner,  sir ;  I  s' 
no  be  lang." 

"  Yer  gracious   words,    mem,    are    mair    nor 
15s 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

meat  and  drink  to  me.  I  could,  like  Elijah,  go 
in  the  strength  of  them  —  maybe  something 
less  than  forty  days,  but  it  would  be  by  the 
same  sort  o'  strength  as  that  angel's-food  gied 
the  prophet !  " 

Marion  hurried  none  the  less  for  such  a 
speech ;  and  soon  the  minister  had  both  eaten 
his  supper,  and  was  seated,  in  the  cool  of  a 
green  summer  evening,  in  the  garden  before 
the  house,  among  roses  and  lilies  and  poppy- 
heads,  and  long  pink-striped  grasses,  enjoying  a 
pipe  with  the  farmer,  who  had  anticipated  the 
hour  for  unyoking,  and  hurried  home  to  have  a 
talk  with  Mr.  Robertson.  The  minister  opened 
wide  his  heart,  and  told  them  all  he  knew  of 
Isy  and  thought,  perceiving  nothing  of  their 
vague  misery  about  James  and  his  suspected 
secret.  But  the  prospect  of  aiding  one  in  the 
effort  to  rise  to  a  new  life  was  the  best  com- 
fort he  could  have  brought  them.  And  so 
prejudiced  were  they  in  her  favour  by  what  he 
said  of  her,  and  the  arguments  he  brought 
to  show  the  judgment  of  the  world  in  her  case 
tyrannous  and  false,  that  what  anxiety  might 
yet  remain  as  to  the  new  relation  into  which 
they  were  about  to  enter,  was  soon  absorbed 
in  hopeful  expectation  at  her  appearance. 

"But,"  he  said,  "you  will  have  to  be  wise 
as  serpents,  lest  you  kep  a  lost  sheep  on  her 
156 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

w'y  back  to  the  shepherd,  and  she  lie  theroot, 
exposed  to  the  prowlin'  wolf.  Before  God,  I 
would  rather  share  wi'  her  in  tJiat(h.y,  than  wi' 
them  that  keppit  her!" 

That  night  they  all  slept  well  in  the  hope  of 
good  on  its  way,  and  in  the  morning  the  min- 
ister started  early  to  mount  the  return-coach; 
with  a  lightened  heart,  indeed,  but  the  new 
anxiety  of  persuading  her  who  needed  the  help 
to  accept  it  now  it  was  offered.  But  he  was 
startled,  indeed  dismayed,  at  the  pallor  that 
overwhelmed  Isy's  look  when,  following  his 
assurance  of  the  welcome  that  awaited  her,  she 
heard  the  name  and  abode  of  her  new  friends. 

"They'll  be  wantin'  to  ken  a'  thing!"  she 
sobbed. 

"Tell  you  them,"  returned  the  minister, 
"everything  they  have  a  right  to  know;  they 
are  good  people,  and  will  not  ask  more.  Be- 
yond that,  they  will  respect  your  silence." 

"There  's  but  ae  thing,  as  ye  ken,  sir,  that  I 
canna,  and  winna,  tell.  To  baud  my  tongue 
aboot  that  is  the  ae  particle  o'  honesty  left 
possible  to  me !  It 's  eneuch  I  should  hae  been 
the  cause  o'  the  puir  man's  sin,  and  I  'm  no 
gaein'  to  bring  upon  him  ony  o'  the  conse- 
quences o'  't  as  weel.  God  keep  the  doors  o' 
my  lips !  " 

"We  will  not  go  into  the  question  whether 
157 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

you  or  he  was  the  more  to  blame,"  returned 
the  parson;  "but  I  heartily  approve  of  your 
resolve,  and  admire  your  firmness  in  holding 
to  it.  The  time  7nay  come  when  you  ought  to 
tell,  but  until  then  I  shall  not  even  allow  my- 
self to  wonder  who  the  faithless  man  may 
be." 

Isy  burst  into  tears. 

"Dinna  ca'  him  that,  sir!  Dinna  gar  me 
doobt  him.  Latna  the  thoucht  cross  my  min' 
that  he  could  hae  helpit  it !  For  me,  I  deserve 
naething;  and  my  bonny  bairn  maun  by  this 
time  be  back  hame  to  Him  that  sent  him !  " 

Assured  that  her  secret  would  be  respected 
by  those  to  whom  she  was  going,  she  ceased  to 
show  any  farther  reluctance  to  accept  the  shel- 
ter they  offered  her.  And,  in  truth,  beneath 
the  dread  of  encountering  James  Blatherwick's 
parents,  lay  hidden  in  her  mind  the  fearful  joy 
of  a  chance  that  some  day,  herself  unseen,  she 
might  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  man  she  still 
loved  with  all  the  forgiving  tenderness  of  a 
true,  therefore  a  strong  heart ;  for  is  there  any 
strength  but  what  is  founded  on  truth.**  God 
is  true  if  every  man  be  a  liar,  and  God  loves  if 
he  loves  alone.  With  a  trembling,  fluttering 
bosom  she  took  her  place  beside  her  friend,  to 
go  with  him  to  the  refuge  he  had  found  for 
her. 

158 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

Once  more  out  in  the  open  world,  with 
which  she  had  as  yet  had  so  little  of  a  joyous 
acquaintance,  that  same  world  began  at  once  to 
work  the  will  of  its  Maker  upon  her  poor  torn 
soul,  and  afar  in  its  hidden  deeps  the  slow 
process  of  healing  was  already  begun.  Sorrow 
would  often  return  unbidden,  would  at  times 
even  rise  like  a  crested  wave  and  threaten  with 
despair  the  last  hour  of  her  victorious  conflict, 
but  Reality,  long  hidden  from  her  by  the  lying 
judgments  of  men  and  women  of  this  world, 
was  beginning  to  reveal  itself  to  her  tear- 
blinded  vision,  and  Hope  was  lifting  a  feeble 
head  above  the  weeds  of  the  ugly  heap :  soon, 
soon  she  would  see  and  understand  how  little 
the  Father,  whose  judgment  is  the  truth  of 
things,  cares  what  any  one  of  his  children  may 
at  any  time  have  been  or  done,  the  moment 
that  child  gives  himself  up  to  be  made  what  he 
would  have  him  be!  Looking  down  into  the 
hearts  of  men,  he  sees  differences  there  of 
which  the  self-important  world  takes  no  heed ; 
and  many  that  are  first  are  in  his  eyes  the  last ; 
and  what  he  sees,  alone  is:  kings  and  emperors 
are  nowhere,  and  their  judgments  are  forgot- 
ten ;  a  gutter-child,  a  thief,  a  girl  who  had 
never  in  this  world  even  a  notion  of  purity, 
may  lie  smiling  in  the  arms  of  the  Eternal, 
while  the  head  of  a  lordly  house  which  still  flour- 
159 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

ishes  like  a  green  bay-tree  may  be  wandering 
with  the  dogs  outside  the  city. 

Out  in  the  open  world,  I  say,  the  power  of 
the  present  God  began  at  once  to  work  upon 
Isobel,  for  she  looked  into  his  open  face  dimly, 
vaguely  sketched  in  the  mighty  something  we 
call  Nature,  —  chiefly  in  the  great  vault  we  call 
Heaven,  the  Upheaved.  Shapely  but  unde- 
fined, perfect  in  form,  yet  limitless  in  depth; 
blue  and  persistent,  yet  ever  evading  capture  by 
human  heart  in  human  eye, —  this  sphere  of  fash- 
ioned boundlessness,  of  definite  shapelessness, 
called  up  in  her  heart  the  formless  children 
of  upheavedness,  grandeur,  namely,  and  awe, 
hope,  namely,  and  desire,  all  rushing  together 
toward  the  dawn  of  the  unspeakable  One,  who, 
dwelling  in  that  heaven,  is  above  all  heavens 
—  mighty  and  unchangeable,  yet  childlike;  in- 
exorable, yet  tender  as  never  was  mother,  and 
devoted  as  never  yet  was  child  save  one  !  Isy, 
indeed,  understood  little  of  all  this;  yet  she 
wept,  she  knew  not  why,  and  it  was  not  for 
sorrow. 

But  when  the  coach-journey  was  over,  and 
without  knowing  it,  she  turned  her  back  upon 
the  house  where  her  child  lay,  and  entered  the 
desolate  hill-country,  with  so  little  attraction 
save  for  such  to  whom  a  present  childhood  has 
revealed  it,  a  strange  feeling  began  to  invade 
i6o 


SALTED   WITH  FIRE 

her  consciousness.  Seeming  at  first  but  the 
return  of  a  mood,  then  of  an  old  dream,  then  of 
a  painful,  confused,  half-forgotten  memory,  it 
cleared  and  settled  at  last  into  the  conviction 
that  she  had  been  in  that  same  region  before, 
and  had  had  although  a  passing,  yet  a  painful 
acquaintance  with  it;  and  at  last  she  concluded 
that  she  must  be  near  the  very  spot  where  she 
had  left  and  lost  her  baby.  All  that  had  up  to 
that  moment  befallen  her  seemed  fused  in  a 
troubled  conglomerate  of  hunger  and  cold  and 
weariness,  help  and  hurt,  deliverance  and  return- 
ing pain,  and  to  mingle  inextricably  with  the 
vision  around  her,  there  condensing  into  mem- 
ory of  that  one  event,  of  which  this  was  the 
actual  scene  —  widespread  wastes  of  heather 
and  peat,  great  stones  here  and  there  half- 
buried  in  it,  half-sticking  out  of  it,  and  she 
waiting  there  for  something  to  come  to  pass: 
surely  behind  this  veil  of  the  Visible  a  child 
must  somewhere  stand  with  outstretched  arms, 
hungering  after  his  mother!  Memory  must 
that  very  moment  be  trembling  into  vision! 
Surely  at  length  her  heart's  desire  was  coming 
near  to  her  expectant  soul !  But  alas !  even 
this  certainty  of  recollection,  this  assurance  of 
prophetic  anticipation,  faded  from  her,  and  of 
the  memory  itself  remained  nothing  but  a  ruin; 
and  all  this  came  and  passed  within  her  while 
II  i6i 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

she  walked  wearily  by  the  side  of  her  compan- 
ion —  meditating  a  glad  sermon  for  the  next  Sun- 
day about  the  lost  sheep  carried  home  with  re- 
joicing, and  forgetting  how  unfit  was  the  poor 
sheep  beside  him  for  such  a  fatiguing  tramp  up 
and  down  hill  along  the  broken  country  road, 
little  better  than  the  bed  of  a  torrent,  which  it 
was  indeed  in  the  winter.  But  all  at  once  she 
darted  aside  from  the  rough  track,  and  ran  like 
one  demented  into  a  great  clump  of  heather, 
which  she  began  to  search  through  and  through, 
while  the  minister  stopped  and  watched  her, 
fearing  she  had  again  lost  her  wits.  At  length 
she  got  on  the  top  of  a  stone  that  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  clump,  and,  having  again  and 
again  gazed  all  around  her,  descended  with  a 
look  of  hopelessness,  and  she  came  slowly 
back  to  him,  saying,  — 

"I  beg  yer  pardon,  sir;  I  thoucht  I  had  a 
glimp  o'  my  bairnie  amo'  the  heather!  This 
maun  be  the  vera  spot  whaur  I  left  him !  " 

A  moment  more,  and  she  faltered  feebly, 
"Is't  far  we  hae  to  gang  yet,  sir?"  and 
before  he  could  answer  her,  staggered  to  the 
side  of  the  road,  and  sinking  upon  the  bank 
that  bordered  it,  gave  a  great  gasp  and  lay 
still. 

The  minister  saw  in  a  moment  that  he  had 
been  cruel  in  expecting  her  to  walk  so  far,  and 
162 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

made  haste  to  lay  her  comfortably  on  the  top 
of  the  bank  among  the  long  heather;  then  he 
waited  in  some  anxiety  for  her  to  come  to  her- 
self. He  could  see  no  water,  but  at  least  she 
had  plenty  of  air  ! 

In  a  little  while  she  began  to  recover,  sat  up, 
and  would  have  risen  to  resume  her  journey. 
But  the  big  minister,  filled  with  compunction, 
took  her  in  his  long  arms,  to  carry  her  up  the 
crown  of  the  ascent.  She  expostulated,  but 
was  unable  even  to  resist  his  determination. 
Strong  as  he  was,  however,  and  light  as  was 
her  weight,  he  found  it  no  easy  task  to  bear  her 
up  the  last  part  of  the  steep  rise,  and  was  glad 
to  set  her  down  at  the  top,  where  a  fresh  breeze 
was  waiting  to  revive  them  both.  She  thanked 
him  like  any  little  girl  whose  father  had  come 
to  her  help,  and  they  seated  themselves  to- 
gether on  the  highest  point  of  the  moor,  with 
a  large,  desolate  land  on  every  side  of  them. 

"  Oh,  sir,  but  ye  are  good  to  me ! "  she  re- 
sumed. "That  brae  just  minded  me  o'  the 
Hill  of  Difficulty  in  the  Pilgrini  s  Progress  !" 

"  You  know  that  story,  then } "  said  the 
minister. 

"My  old  grannie  used  to  make  me  read  it  to 

her  as  she  lay  dying.      I  thought  it  long  and 

tiresome  then,  but  since  you  took  me  home,  I 

have   remembered   many   things    in    it;  I  had 

163 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

come  to  the  house  of  the  Interpreter.     You  've 
made  me  understand,  sir !  " 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  Isy !  You  see  I  know 
some  things  that  make  me  very  glad,  and  I 
want  them  to  make  you  glad  too.  And  the 
thing  that  makes  me  gladdest  of  all  is  just 
that  God  is  what  he  is.  To  know  that  such  a 
being  is  God  over  us  and  in  us,  makes  our  very 
existence  a  most  precious  delight.  His  chil- 
dren, those  of  them  that  know  him,  are  all  glad 
just  because  he  is  and  they  are  his  children. 
Do  you  think  a  strong  man  like  me  would  read 
sermons  and  say  prayers  and  talk  to  people,  and 
do  nothing  but  such  shamefully  easy  work,  if 
he  did  not  believe  what  he  said .-' " 

"I'm  sure,  sir,  you  had  hard  enough  work 
with  me  !  I  am  a  bad  one  to  teach  !  I  thought 
I  knew  all  that  you  have  had  such  trouble  to 
make  me  see !  I  was  in  a  bog  of  ignorance 
and  misery,  but  now  I  am  getting  my  head 
up,  and  seeing  about  me!  Please,  let  me  ask 
you  one  thing,  sir  —  how  is  it  that,  when  the 
thought  of  God  comes  to  me,  I  always  draw 
back,  afraid  of  him }  If  he  be  the  kind  of 
person  you  say  he  is,  why  can't  I  go  close  up 
to  him }  " 

"I  confess  to  the  same  foolishness  at  times," 
answered  the  minister.     "  It  can  only  be   be- 
cause we  do  not  yet  see  God  as  he  is  —  and 
164 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

that  must  be  because  we  do  not  yet  really  un- 
derstand Jesus  —  do  not  see  the  glory  of  God  in 
his  face.     God  is  just  like  him." 

And  the  parson  fell  awondering  why  it  could 
be  that  so  many,  gentle  and  guileless  as  this 
woman-child,  should  recoil  from  the  thought 
of  the  perfect  One.  Why  should  they  not  be 
always  and  irresistibly  drawn  toward  the  very 
idea  of  God  ?  Why  should  they  not  run  to  see 
and  make  sure  whether  God  were  indeed  such 
a  one  or  not.?  whether  he  was  really  Love 
itself,  or  only  after  a  fashion?  It  made  him 
think  about  many  things  —  concerning  which 
he  soon  discovered  that  he  had  been  teaching 
them  without  kiioiviiig  them  —  for,  indeed,  how 
could  he  knoiv  things  that  were  not  true  and 
therefore  could  not  be  known?  He  had  indeed 
been  saying  that  God  was  Love,  and  yet  teach- 
ing many  things  about  him  that  were  not 
lovable ! 

They  sat  thinking  and  talking,  with  silences 
between ;  and,  all  the  time,  the  day-star  was 
rising  unnoted  in  their  hearts.  At  length  they 
rose  themselves  and  resumed  their  journey. 

The  door  stood  open  to  receive  them,  but  ere 
they  reached  it  a  bright-looking  little  woman, 
with  delicate  lines  of  ingrained  red  in  a  sor- 
rowful, waiting  face,  appeared  in  it,  looking 
out  for  them  with  questioning  eyes,  like  a 
i6S 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

mother-bird  whose  feet  were  just  leaving  hold 
of  the  threshold  of  her  nest  to  fly  to  meet  them. 
Through  the  film  that  blinded  her  expectant 
eyes,  Marion  saw  at  once  what  manner  of 
woman  she  was  who  drew  nigh,  and  her  moth- 
erhood went  out  to  welcome  her.  In  the  love- 
witchery  of  the  yearning  look  that  humbly 
sought  acceptance,  in  the  hesitating  approach, 
half-checked  by  gentle  apology,  Marion  seemed 
to  see  her  own  Isy  returned  from  the  gates  of 
Death,  and  sprang  to  meet  her.  The  mediat- 
ing love  of  the  minister,  obliterating  itself,  had 
made  him  draw  lingering  back  a  step  or  two, 
and  wait  for  what  would  follow ;  but  when  he 
saw  the  two  folded  each  in  the  other's  arms, 
and  the  fountain  of  eternal  love  break  forth  at 
once  from  the  two  encountering  hearts,  his  soul 
leaped  for  joy  at  the  birth  of  a  new  love,  new 
indeed,  but  not  the  less  surely  eternal,  for  God 
is  Love,  and  Love  is  that  which  is,  and  was, 
and  shall  be  for  evermore,  boundless,  uncondi- 
tioned, self-existent,  creative!  "Truly,"  he 
said  in  himself,  "God  is  Love,  and  God  is  all 
and  in  all !  He  is  no  abstraction,  but  the  one 
eternal  Individual!  In  him  Love  evermore 
breaks  forth  anew  into  fresh  personality  in 
every  new  consciousness,  in  every  new  child  of 
the  one  creating  Father.  In  every  burning 
heart,  in  every  thing  that  hopes  and  fears  and 
i66 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

is,  Love  is  the  creative  presence,  the  centre,  the 
source  of  life,  yea,  Life  itself;  yea,  God  him- 
self !  '  I  said,  ye  are  gods  ! '  " 

The  elder  woman  drew  herself  a  little  back, 
held  the  poor  white-faced  thing  at  arm's-length, 
and  looked  her  through  the  face  into  the  heart. 

"  My  bonny  lamb  !  "  she  cried,  and  pressed 
the  younger  again  to  her  bosom ;  "  come  hame, 
and  be  a  guid  bairn,  and  ill  man  sail  never  touch 
ye  mair !  There 's  my  man  waiting  for  ye  to 
tak'  ye  and  haud  ye  safe !  " 

Isy  looked  up,  and  over  the  shoulder  of  her 
hostess  saw  the  strong  paternal  face  of  the 
farmer,  full  of  silent  welcome.  For  the  strange 
emotion  that  filled  him  he  did  not  seek  to  ac- 
count. His  mood  he  had  no  more  made  than 
himself!  Such  as  he  was,  such  he  would  be  — 
content  with  what  he  found  himself.  But  his 
will  was  lord  over  his  mood,  and  he  kept  him- 
self quiet. 

"  Come  ben  the  hoose,  lassie,"  he  said,  and 
led  the  way  to  the  parlour,  where  the  red  sunset 
was  shining  through  the  low  gable  window,  fill- 
ing the  place  with  the  glamour  of  departing 
glory.  "  Sit  ye  doon  upo'  the  sofa  there ;  ye 
maun  be  sair  tired  !  But  surely  ye  haena  come 
a'  the  lang  road  frae  Tiltbowie  upo'  yer  ain  twa 
wee,  wee  feet !  " 

'*  'Deed  has  she,"  answered  the  minister,  who 
167 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

had  followed  them  into  the  room,  "  the  more 
shame  to  me  who  let  her  do  it ! " 

But  the  hostess  was  lingering  outside  the  door 
of  it,  and  wiped  away  the  tears  that  would  keep 
flowing.  For  still  the  one  question,  "  What  can 
be  amiss  wi'  Jamie?"  haunted  and  harried  her 
heart ;  and  with  it  was  the  idea,  although  vague 
and  formless,  that  their  good-will  to  the  wander- 
ing outcast  of  the  world  might  perhaps  do 
something  to  make  up  for  whatever  ill  thing 
Jamie  had  done.  At  last,  instead  of  entering 
after  them,  she  turned  away  to  the  kitchen,  and 
made  haste  to  get  the  tea,  while  Isy  sank  back 
in  the  wide  sofa,  lost  in  refuge,  and  the  minister 
said  to  himself  as  he  saw  her  look,  "  Surely  she 
is  feeling  just  as  we  shall  all  feel  when  first  we 
know  that  nothing  is  near  us  but  the  Love  itself 
that  was  before  all  worlds,  and  there  is  no  doubt 
more,  and  no  questioning  more ! "  Only  the 
heart  of  the  father  was  full  of  the  same  old 
uncontent,  the  same  longing  after  the  heart 
of  his  boy  that  had  never  learned  to  cry 
"  Father  !  " 

But  soon  they  sat  down  to  the  pleasantest  of 
all  meals,  a  farmhouse  tea.  Hardly  anyone 
spoke,  and  hardly  anyone  missed  the  speech,  or 
was  aware  of  the  silence  —  until,  from  very  hap- 
piness, the  bereaved  Isobel  thought  of  her  for- 
saken child,  and  burst  into  silent  tears.  Then 
1 68 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

the  mother,  who  sorrowed  with  such  a  different 
and  bitterer  sorrow,  divining  at  once  her  thought, 
and  whence  it  came,  rose,  and  standing  behind 
her  said, — 

"  Noo  ye  maun  jist  come  awa'  wi'  me,  and  I  s' 
pit  ye  till  yer  bed,  and  lea'  ye  there !  — Na,  na; 
say  gude  nicht  to  naebody !  Ye  '11  see  the 
minister  again  i'  the  mornin' !  " 

With  that  she  took  her  away,  half  carrying 
her  close-pressed,  half  leading  her:  Marion  was 
no  bigger  than  Isy,  but  much  stronger,  and 
could  easily  have  carried  her  to  bed.  That 
night  both  mothers  slept  well,  and  both  dreamed 
of  their  mothers  and  of  their  children.  But  in 
the  morning  nothing  remained  of  their  dreams 
except  a  great  hope  in  the  great  Father. 

When  Isy  in  the  morning  entered  the  little 
parlour,  she  found  she  had  slept  so  long  that 
breakfast  was  over,  the  minister  smoking  his 
pipe  in  the  garden,  and  Peter  busy  in  the  yard. 
But  Marion,  hearing  her,  appeared  at  once, 
bringing  her  breakfast,  and  beaming  with  min- 
istration. Bethinking  herself,  however,  that  she 
would  eat  it  better  if  left  to  herself,  she  went 
back  to  her  work.  In  about  five  minutes,  how- 
ever, Isy  joined  her,  and  began  at  once  to  lend 
her  a  helping  hand. 

"Hoot,  hoot,  my  dear!"  cried  her  hostess, 
"ye  haena  taen  time  eneuch  to  make  a  dacent 
169 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

brakfast  o'  't !  Gang  awa'  back,  and  put  mair 
intill  ye.  Ye  maun  learn  to  ate,  or  we  '11  never 
hae  ony  guid  o'  ye  !  " 

"  I  just  canna  eat  for  glaidness,"  returned  Isy. 
"  Ye  're  that  guid  to  me,  that  I  daur  hardly  think 
aboot  it  for  greitin' !  —  Lat  me  help  ye,  mem, 
and  I  '11  be  hungry  'gen  dennertime  !  " 

Mrs.  Blathervvick  understood,  and  said  no 
more.  She  showed  her  what  to  do  to  help  her; 
and  Isy,  happy  as  a  child,  came  and  went  at  her 
pleasant  orders  rejoicing.  Probably,  had  she 
started  in  life  with  less  devotion,  she  might  have 
fared  better;  but  the  end  was  not  yet,  and  that 
must  be  known  before  we  dare  judge  the  pro- 
cess :  result  explains  history.  For  the  present 
it  is  enough  to  say  that,  with  the  repose  of  mind 
she  now  enjoyed,  with  the  good  food  she  had 
and  the  wholesome  exercise,  for  Mrs.  Blather- 
wick  took  care  she  should  not  have  to  work  too 
hard,  with  the  constant  kindness  shown  her,  and 
the  steady  growth  of  her  faith  and  hope,  her 
light-heartedness  first,  and  then  her  good  looks, 
began  to  return,  and  soon  the  dainty  little  crea- 
ture was  both  prettier  and  lovelier  than  before ; 
and  at  the  same  time  her  face  and  figure,  her 
ways  and  motions,  went  on  mingling  themselves 
so  inextricably  with  Marion's  impressions  of  her 
vanished  Isy,  that  at  length  it  seemed  to  her 
mistress  —  for  so  of  her  own  will  she  always 
170 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

called  Mrs.  Blathenvick — that  she  never  could 
be  able  to  part  with  her.  She  had  not  for  some 
days  had  anyone  to  help  her,  having  lately  dis- 
missed one,  and  been  waiting  to  see  how  Isy 
would  turn  out,  whether  capable  or  helpless. 
Nor  had  she  long  to  wait  assurance  on  that 
point,  for  that  same  day  she  found  her  equal  to 
anything  and  everything  necessary  in  the  house, 
and  that  she  had  but  to  put  her  hands  to  the 
work  of  the  dairy  to  compass  that  as  well.  So 
she  settled  into  the  place,  as  if  she  and  it  had 
been  made  for  each  other. 

It  did  sometimes  cross  Isy's  mind,  with  a  sting 
of  doubt,  whether  it  was  fair  to  hide  from  her 
new  friends  the  full  facts  of  her  sorrowful  his- 
tory, and  the  relation  in  which  she  stood  to 
them ;  but  to  quiet  her  conscience  she  had  only 
to  reflect  that  it  was  solely  for  the  sake  of  the 
son  they  loved  that  she  kept  her  silence. 
Further  than  his  protection,  she  had  no  design, 
cherished  no  scheme.  The  idea  of  compelling, 
or  even  influencing  him  to  do  her  justice,  never 
crossed  her  horizon.  On  the  contrary,  she  was 
possessed  by  the  notion  that  she  had  done  him 
a  great  wrong,  and  was  in  danger  of  rendering  it 
irretrievable.  She  had  never  thought  the  thing 
out  as  between  her  and  him,  never  even  said  to 
herself  that  he  too  had  been  to  blame.  The  ex- 
aggerated notion  of  her  share  in  the  blame  had 
171 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

found  a  lodgment  and  got  fixed  in  her  mind, 
partly  from  her  acquaintance  with  the  popular 
judgment  concerning  such  as  she  that  filled  the 
moral  air  around  her,  partly  and  yet  more  from 
her  humble  and  constant  readiness  to  take  any 
possible  blame  to  herself  Even  had  she  been 
capable  of  bringing  the  consequences  into  com- 
parison, the  injury  she  had  done  to  his  prospects 
as  a  minister  would  have  seemed  to  her  revering 
soul  a  far  greater  wrong  than  any  suffering  or 
loss  he  had  brought  upon  her ;  for  what  was  she 
beside  him?  what  her  life  to  the  frustration  of 
such  prospects  as  his?  Nor  was  the  injury  she 
had  done  him  the  less  grievous  that  it  had  been 
unintentional;  while  the  sole  alleviation  of  her 
misery  was  that  she  seemed  hitherto  to  have 
escaped  involving  him  in  the  consequences, 
which,  so  far  as  she  could  tell,  remained  con- 
cealed from  him,  as  well  as  from  such  whose 
knowledge  of  them  might  have  rendered  them 
operative  to  his  hurt.  In  truth,  never  was  less 
worthy  man  more  devotedly  shielded ;  and 
never  was  hidden  wrong  turned  more  eagerly 
and  persistently  into  loving  service  !  Many  and 
many  a  time  did  the  loving  heart  of  James's 
mother,  as  she  watched  Isy's  deft  and  dainty 
deeds  and  motions,  regret  even  with  bitterness 
that  such  a  capable  and  love-inspiring  girl 
should  have  rendered  herself  unworthy  of  her 
172 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

son,  whom,  notwithstanding  the  disparity  of  their 
positions,  she  would  gladly  have  welcomed  as  a 
daughter,  had  she  but  been  spotless,  and  fit  to 
be  loved  by  him. 

In  the  evenings,  when  the  work  of  the  day 
was  done,  Isy  used  to  ramble  about  the  moor, 
in  the  lingering  rays  of  the  last  of  the  sunset 
and  the  long  twilight  that  followed ;  and  in 
those  unhasting,  gentle  hours,  so  spiritual  in 
their  tone  that  they  seem  to  come  straight  from 
the  eternal  spaces,  where  is  no  recalling  and  no 
forgetting,  where  time,  space,  and  spirit  are  at 
rest,  Isy  first  began  to  read  with  understanding. 
For  now  first  she  fell  into  the  company  of  books 
—  old-fashioned  ones,  no  doubt,  but  perhaps 
even  therefore  better  for  her,  who  was  an  old- 
fashioned,  gentle,  ignorant,  thoughtful  child. 
Among  the  rest  in  the  farmhouse,  she  came 
upon  the  two  volumes  of  a  book  called  the  Pre- 
ceptor, which  contained  various  treatises  laying 
down  "  the  first  principles  of  polite  learning." 
These  drew  her  eager  attention ;  and  with  one 
or  other  of  these  not  very  handy  volumes  in 
her  hand,  she  would  steal  out  of  sight  of  the 
farm,  and,  lapt  in  the  solitude  of  the  moor, 
there  sit  and  read  until  at  last  the  light  itself 
could  read  no  more.  Even  the  Geometry  she 
found  there  attracted  her  not  a  little ;  the 
Rhetoric  and  Poetry  drew  her  yet  more ;  and 
173 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

most  of  all,  the  Natural  History,  with  its  engrav- 
ings of  beasts  and  birds,  poor  as  it  was,  de- 
lighted her.  From  these  antiquated  repertories 
of  science  and  art,  she  gathered  much,  and 
chiefly  the  most  valuable  knowledge  of  her 
ignorance.  There,  also,  searching  in  a  garret 
to  which  she  had  free  access,  she  found  an  Eng- 
lish translation  of  Klopstock's  Messiah^  a  poem 
which  in  the  middle  of  the  last  century  caused 
a  great  excitement  in  Germany,  and  did  not  a 
little,  I  fancy,  for  the  development  of  religious 
feeling  in  the  country  during  that  and  the  fol- 
lowing century,  its  slow-subsiding  ripple  not 
altogether  unfelt  possibly  even  to  this  day. 
She  read  the  book  through  in  these  her  twilight 
strolls,  not  without  risk  of  many  a  fall  over  bush 
and  stone  ere  practice  had  taught  her  to  see  at 
once  both  the  path  for  her  feet  and  that  for  her 
eyes  over  the  printed  page.  The  book  both 
pleased  and  suited  her,  the  parts  that  interested 
her  most  being  those  about  the  repentant  angel, 
Abaddon;  who,  if  I  remember  aright,  haunted 
the  steps  of  the  Saviour,  and  hovered  about  the 
cross  while  he  was  crucified.  The  great  ques- 
tion with  her  for  a  long  time  was,  whether  the 
Saviour  must  not  have  forgiven  him ;  but  by 
slow  degrees  it  became  at  last  clear  to  her  that 
he  who  came  but  to  seek  and  save  the  lost, 
could  not  close  the  door  against  one  that  sought 
174 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

return  to  his  fealty.  It  was  not  until  she  knew 
the  soutar,  however,  that  at  length  she  under- 
stood the  tireless  redeeming  of  the  Father,  who 
had  sent  men  blind  and  stupid  and  ill-condi- 
tioned, into  a  world  where  they  had  to  learn 
almost  everything. 

There  were  some  few  books  accessible  of  a 
more  theological  sort,  which  happily  she  neither 
could  understand  nor  was  able  to  imagine  she 
understood,  and  which  therefore  she  instinctively 
refused,  as  containing  food  neither  for  thought 
nor  feeling.  There  was,  besides,  Dr.  Johnson's 
Rasselas,  which  mildly  interested  her,  and  a 
book  called  Dialogues  of  Devils,  which  she 
read  with  avidity ;  and  thus,  if  indeed  her  igno- 
rance did  not  grow  much  less,  at  least  her 
knowledge  of  it  grew  a  little  greater. 

And  all  the  time  she  was  haunted  with  the 
conviction  that  she  had  been  in  that  region 
before,  and  that  indeed  she  was  very  near  the 
spot  where  she  had  laid  down  and  lost  her 
child. 


175 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

In  the  meantime,  the  said  child,  a  splendid  boy, 
was  the  delight  of  the  humble  dwelling  to  which 
he  had  been  borne  in  triumph,  although  the 
mind  of  the  soutar  was  not  a  little  exercised  as 
to  how  far  their  right  in  the  boy  approached  the 
paternal :  were  they  justified  in  regarding  him 
as  their  love-property,  before  exhaustive  inquiry 
as  to  who  could  claim  and  might  reappropriate 
him?  For  a  duty  was  infinite;  and  no  degree 
of  solicitude  or  fulfilment  of  obligation  could 
liberate  the  finder  of  a  thing  lost  from  the  neces- 
sity of  restoring  it  upon  demand :  none  could 
be  certain  that  the  child  had  been  deliberately 
and  finally  abandoned !  Maggie,  indeed,  re- 
garded the  baby  as  hers  by  right  of  rescue  ;  but 
what  if  by  retaining  him  she  were  depriving  her 
who  had  lost  him  of  the  one  remaining  link  be- 
tween her  and  humanity,  that  held  her  fast  to 
the  ultimate  righteousness,  and  might  at  last  de- 
liver her  from  the  snare  of  the  enemy?  Surely 
to  take  and  withhold  from  any  woman  her  child, 
would  be  to  sever  the  one  tie  that  bound  her  to 
176 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

the  unseen  and  eternal !  And  the  soutar  saw 
that  for  the  sake  of  the  truth  in  Maggie,  she 
must  omit  no  possible  endeavour  to  restore  the 
child  to  the  care  of  his  mother. 

So  the  next  time  Maggie  brought  the  crow- 
ing infant  to  the  kitchen,  her  father,  who  sat  as 
usual  under  the  small  window,  to  gather  all  the 
light  to  be  had  upon  his  work,  said,  glancing  up 
at  the  child,  and  turning  his  eyes  again  to  his 
work :  — 

"  Eh,  the  bonny,  glaid  cratur !  Wha  can  say 
'at  sic  as  he  'at  haena  the  tvva  'm  ane  to  see  till 
them  getna  frae  Himsel'  a  mair  partic'lar  and 
carefu*  regaird,  gien  that  could  be,  than  ither 
bairns  !     I  would  fain  believe  the  same  !  " 

"  Eh,  father,  but  ye  aye  think  bonny !  "  ex- 
claimed Maggie.  "  Mony  ane  has  been  dingin' 
't  in  upo'  me  'at  sic  as  he  maist  aye  turn  oot 
onything  but  weel  whan  they  step  oot  intill  the 
warl.  Eh,  but  we  maun  tak'  care  o'  'im,  father ! 
Whaur  would  I  be  wi'oot   you  at  my  back  !  " 

"  And  God  at  the  back  o'  me,  bairn  !  "  re- 
joined the  soutar.  "  It's  possible  the  Almichty 
may  hae  special  diffeeculty  wi'  sic  as  he,  but 
nane  can  jeedge  o'  onything  or  ony  body  till 
they  see  the  hin'er  en'  o'  't  a'.  But  I  'm  thinkin' 
it  maun  aye  be  harder  for  ane  that  hasna  his 
ain  mither  to  luik  till.  Ony  ither  body,  be  she 
as  guid  as  she  may,  maun  be  but  a  mak'shift! 
12  177 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

For  ae  thing  he  winna  get  the  same  naitral  dis- 
ciplene  ilka  mither  cat  gi'es  its  kitlins !  " 

"  Maybe  !  maybe  !  —  I  couldna  lay  a  finger 
upo'  the  bonny  cratur  mysel' !  "  said  Maggie. 

"  There  't  is  !  "  returned  her  father.  "  I  dinna 
think,"  he  went  on,  "  we  can  expec'  mucklc  frae 
the  wisdom  o'  the  mither  o'  'm,  gien  she  had 
him,  nor  yet  frae  that  o'  ither  fowk  'at  '11  be  sair 
enough  upon  'im  though  nane  wiser!  It  '11  be 
but  puir  disciplene  to  luik  upon  'im  as  ane  in 
wha's  existance  God  has  had  nae  share  —  or  jist 
as  muckle  as  gi'es  him  a  grup  o'  him  for  his 
licks !  There 's  a  heap  o'  mystery  aboot  a' 
thing,  Maggie,  and  that  frae  the  vera  beginnin' 
to  the  vera  en' ;  and  maybe  yon  bairnie  's  in 
waur  danger  than  or'nar  jist  frae  you  and  me, 
Maggie  !  Eh,  but  I  wuss  his  ain  mother  were 
gien  back  till  him  !  And  wha  can  tell  but  she 's 
needin'  him  waur  nor  he's  needin'  her  —  though 
there  maun  aye  be  something  he  canna  get,  — 
'cause  ye  're  no  his  ain  mither,  Maggie,  and  I  'm 
no  his  ain  gran'father !  " 

The  adoptive  mother  broke  into  a  howl  like 
that  of  a  sorely  wounded  dam. 

"  Father,  father,  ye  '11  brak  the  hert  o'  me  1  " 
she  all  but  yelled. 

Laying  the  child  on  the  top  of  her  father's 
hands  as  they  were  in  the  very  act  of  drawing 
his  waxed  ends,  and  thus  changing  him  per- 
178 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

force  from  cobbler  to  nurse,  she  bolted  from  the 
kitchen  to  hide  her  misery  in  solitude.  Throw- 
ing herself  down  by  her  bedside,  she  sought 
instinctively  and  unconsciously  the  presence  of 
him  who  sees  in  secret.  For  a  time,  however, 
she  had  nothing  to  say  even  to  him,  and  could 
only  moan  on  in  the  darkness  that  lay  beneath 
her  closed  eyelids.  Suddenly  she  came  to  her- 
self, remembering  that  she,  too,  had  abandoned 
the  child,  and  must  go  back  to  him. 

But  as  she  ran  she  heard  loud  noises  of  infan- 
tile jubilation,  and,  re-entering  the  kitchen,  was 
at  first  amazed  to  see  the  soutar's  hands  moving 
as  persistently  if  not  quite  so  rapidly  as  before, 
while  the  child  hung  at  the  back  of  the  soutar's 
head,  in  the  bight  of  the  long  jack-towel  he  had 
taken  from  behind  the  door,  holding  on  by  the 
hair  on  the  soutar's  grey  occiput.  There  he 
tugged  and  crowed,  while  his  nurse  bent  over 
his  work,  circumspect  in  every  movement,  not 
once  forgetting  the  precious  thing  on  his  back, 
so  delighted  with  the  new  style  of  nursing  as 
only  now  and  then  to  make  a  wry  face  at  some 
motion  of  the  human  machine  more  abrupt  than 
usual.  Evidently  he  took  it  all  as  done  solely 
for  his  pleasure. 

Maggie  burst  out  laughing  through  her  tears, 
and  the  child,  after  a  futile  effort  to  stretch  out 
his  arms  to  her,  began  to  cry  a  little,  whereupon 
179 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

the  mother  in  her,  waking  to  a  sense  that  he 
was  being  treated  too  unceremoniously,  bounded 
to  Hberate  him,  undid  the  towel,  and  sat  down 
with  her  treasure  in  her  lap.  The  grandfather, 
availing  himself  of  his  release,  gave  his  shoul- 
ders a  little  writhing  shake,  laughed  an  amused 
laugh,  and  set  off  boring  and  stitching  and 
drawing  at  redoubled  speed. 

"  Weel,  Maggie,"  he  said  interrogatively, 
without  looking  up. 

"  I  saw  ye  was  richt,  father,  and  it  set  me 
greitin'  sae  that  I  forgot  the  bairn  and  you  as 
weel.  Gang  on,  father ;  say  what  ye  like :  it 's 
a'  true !  " 

"  There  's  but  little  mair  to  say,  lassie,  noo 
ye  hae  begun  to  say  't  to  yersel'.  But,  believe 
me,  though  ye  can  never  be  the  bairn's  ain 
mither,  she  can  never  be  till  'im  the  same  ye  hae 
been.  The  pairt  ye  hae  chosen  is  guid  eneuch 
never  to  be  taen  frae  ye  —  i'  this  warl  or  the 
neist !  " 

"  Thank  ye,  father,  for  that !  I  '11  dee  for  the 
bairn  what  I  can,  ohnforgotten  that  he  *s  no 
mine  but  anither  wuman's.  I  maunna  tak'  what 's 
hers  for  mine  !  " 

The  soutar,  especially  while  at  his  work,  was 

always  trying  "  to   get,"   as  he  said,  "  into  his 

Lord's  company  "  —  now  trying  to  understand 

some  recorded  saying  of  his,  now,  it  might  be, 

i8o 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

his  reasons  for  saying  it  just  then  and  there; 
and  often  he  would  be  pondering  why  he  al- 
lowed this  or  that  to  take  place  in  the  world, 
which  was  his  house,  where  he  was  always  pres- 
ent, and  always  at  work.  Humble  as  diligent 
disciple,  he  never  doubted  when  once  a  thing 
had  taken  place  that  it  had  been  his  will  it 
should  so  come  to  pass,  but  even  where  he  knew 
that  this  or  that  must  ultimately  be  his  Lord's 
will,  he  was  careful  not  to  set  his  heart  upon  the 
when  or  how  of  its  taking  place,  for  he  knew 
that  evil  itself,  originating  with  man  or  his  de- 
ceiver, must  subserve  the  final  will  of  the  All- 
in-All,  and  he  knew  in  his  own  self  much  that 
must  first  be  set  right  before  that  will  could  be 
done  in  earth  as  it  was  in  heaven.  To  this  end 
a  divine  regeneration  was  necessary,  and  this 
process  was  but  very  vaguely  discernible  at  the 
time  by  him  in  whom  it  was  taking  place,  and 
still  less  by  another.  Therefore,  he  was  able  to 
welcome  in  his  child  any  new  manifestation  of 
feeling,  recognising  even  in  its  unexpectedness 
the  pressure  of  a  guiding  hand  in  the  formation 
of  her  history,  revealing  to  herself  what  was  in 
her,  and  making  room  for  what  was  as  yet  un- 
developed. Hence  he  could  love  what  his  child 
was  becoming,  without  being  able  to  fore-imagine 
the  beauty  on  its  way.  Hence,  too,  he  was  able 
to  understand  St.  John,  where  he  says,  "Beloved, 
i8i 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

now  are  we  the  sons  of  God,  and  it  doth  not  yet 
appear  what  we  shall  be,  but  we  know  that, 
when  he  shall  appear,  we  shall  be  like  him,  for 
we  shall  see  him  as  he  is."  For  first,  foremost, 
and  deepest  of  all,  he  positively  and  abso- 
lutely believed  in  the  man  whose  history  he 
found  in  the  Gospel :  that  is,  he  believed  not 
only  that  such  a  man  once  was,  and  that  every 
word  he  then  spoke  was  true ;  but  believed  that 
he  was  still  in  the  world,  and  that  every  word  he 
then  spoke  had  always  been  and  was  still  true ; 
therefore,  believed  what  was  yet  more  to  the 
Master  and  to  his  disciple,  John  MacLear,  that 
the  chief  end  and  aim  of  his  conscious  life  was 
to  live  in  his  presence,  to  keep  his  affections  ever 
afresh  and  constantly  turning  toward  him,  ever 
appealing  to  him  for  strength  to  believe  and  un- 
derstand, and  ever  aspiring  toward  him.  Hence 
every  day  he  felt  afresh  that  he  was  living  in  the 
house  of  God,  among  the  things  of  his  father. 
Many  of  my  readers  themselves  will  think  they 
know  the  man  to  whom  this  description  more  or 
less  corresponds,  and  indeed  in  Tiltbowie  itself 
there  was  a  general  feeling  about  him  that  did 
him  a  sort  of  justice,  even  where  he  was  least 
understood.  In  a  certain  far-offway  men  seemed 
to  know  what  he  was  about,  although  the  value 
of  his  pursuit  they  were  one  and  all  unable  to 
estimate.  What  this  judgment  was,  may  be  so 
182 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

far  gathered  from  the  answer  of  the  village  fool 
to  a  passer-by  who  asked  him,  "  Weel,  and  what 's 
yer  soutar  aboot  the  noo?"  "  Ow,  as  usual," 
answered  the  natural,  "  turnin'  up  ilka  muckle 
stane  to  luik  for  his  Maister  ancth  it !  "  For  in 
truth  he  believed  that  the  Lord  of  men  was  con- 
stantly walking  to  and  fro  in  the  kingdom  of  his 
Father,  seeing  what  was  there  going  on,  and  doing 
his  best  to  bring  it  to  its  ideal  condition  ;  that  he 
was  ever  and  always  in  the  deepest  sense  present 
in  it,  and  could  at  any  moment  show  himself,  if 
he  pleased,  visible  in  any  spot.  Never  did  John 
MacLear  lift  his  eyes  heavenward  without  a  vague 
feeling  that  he  might  that  very  moment  catch  a 
sight  of  the  glory  of  his  coming  Lord ;  if  ever 
he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  far  horizon,  it  was 
never  without  a  shadowy  suggestion  that,  like  a 
sail  towering  over  the  edge  of  the  world,  the 
first  great  flag  of  the  Lord's  hitherward  march 
might  that  moment  be  rising  between  earth  and 
heaven ;  —  for  certainly  he  would  come  una- 
wares, and  who  then  could  tell  the  moment  he 
might  not  set  his  foot  on  the  edge  of  the  visible, 
and  come  out  of  the  dark  in  which  he  had 
hitherto  clothed  himself  as  with  a  garment,  to 
appear  in  the  ancient  glory  of  his  transfigura- 
tion? Thus  was  he  ever  on  the  watch,  and  thus 
never  did  he  play  the  false  prophet,  with  cries 
of  "  Lo  here  !  "  and  "  Lo  there  !  "  nor  ever  said, 
183 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  Hear  the  word  of  the  Lord  "  when  the  Lord 
had  not  spoken.  And  even  when  deepest  lost 
in  watching,  the  lowest  whisper  of  the  march  of 
human  life  was  always  loud  enough  to  recall  the 
soutar  to  his  "  work  alive  "  — to  wake  him,  that 
is,  lest  he  should  be  found  asleep  at  the  coming 
of  his  Lord.  His  was  the  same  live  readiness 
that  had  held  the  ear  of  Maggie  open  to  the  cry 
of  the  little  one  on  the  hillside.  As  his  daily 
work  was  ministration  to  the  weary  feet  of  his 
Master's  men,  so  was  his  soul  ever  awake  to 
their  sorrows  and  spiritual  necessities. 

"  There 's  a  haill  warl  o'  bonny  wark  aboot 
me  !  "  he  would  say.  "  I  hae  but  to  lay  my 
han'  to  what's  neist  me,  and  it's  sure  to  be 
something  that  wants  deein' !  I  'm  clean  ashamt 
when  I  wauk  up  to  fin'  mysel'  deein'  naething !  " 

Every  evening  while  the  summer  lasted,  he 
would  go  out  alone  for  a  walk,  generally  toward 
a  certain  wood  nigh  the  town ;  for  there,  though 
it  was  of  no  great  extent,  and  its  trees  were 
small,  lay  a  probability  of  escaping  for  a  few 
moments  from  the  eyes  of  men,  and  a  chance  of 
certain  of  another  breed  showing  themselves. 

"  But,"  he  said  to  Maggie  once,  "  I  never 
cared  vera  muckle  aboot  the  angels;  it's  the 
man,  the  perfec'  man,  wha  was  there  wi'  the 
Father  afore  ever  an  angel  was  h'ard  tell  o',  that 
sen's  me  upo'  my  knees !  Whan  I  see  a  man 
184 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

that  but  'minds  me  o'  him,  my  hert  rises  up  wi' 
a  loup,  and  seems  as  gien  it  would  'maist  lea'  my 
body  ahint  it."  "  Love  's  the  law  o'  the  universe," 
he  would  say,  "  and  it  jist  works  amazin' !  " 

One  day,  a  man,  seeing  him  approach  in  the 
near  distance,  and  knowing  he  had  not  perceived 
his  presence,  lay  down  behind  a  great  stone  to 
watch  "  the  mad  soutar,"  in  the  hope  of  hear- 
ing him  say  something  insane.  As  John  came 
nearer,  he  saw  his  lips  moving,  and  heard  sounds 
issue  from  them ;  but  as  he  passed  nothing  was 
audible  but  the  same  words  repeated  several 
times,  with  the  same  expression  of  surprise  and 
joy,  as  if  at  something  for  the  first  time  discov- 
ered :  "  Eh,  Lord  !  Eh,  Lord,  I  see  !  I  un'er- 
staun' !  —  Lord,  I  'm  yer  ain  —  to  the  vera  deith 
—  a'  yer  ain  !  —  Thy  father  bless  thee,  Lord  !  — 
I  ken  ye  care  for  noucht  else !  —  Eh,  but  my 
hert  's  glaid  !  —  that  glaid,  I  'maist  canna 
speyk ! " 

That  man  never  after  spoke  of  the  soutar  but 
with  a  respect  that  seemed  something  like  awe. 

After  that  talk  with  her  father  about  the  child 
and  his  mother,  a  certain  silent  change  appeared 
in  Maggie.  People  saw  in  her  a  look  which  they 
read  as  like  that  of  one  whose  child  was  ill,  and 
who  expected  him  soon  to  die.  But  what  Maggie 
felt  was  only  that  he  was  not  hers  but  the  Lord's, 
and  lent  to  her  but  for  a  season,  and  that  she 
185 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

must  walk  softly,  doing  all  for  the  infant  as 
under  the  eye  of  the  Master,  who  might  at  any 
moment  call  to  her  from  above,  "  Bring  the 
child ;  I  want  him  now."  And  although  she 
soon  became  as  cheerful  as  before,  she  never 
lost  the  still,  solemn  look  as  of  one  in  the  eternal 
spaces,  who  saw  beyond  this  world's  horizon. 
She  even  talked  less  with  her  father  than  hith- 
erto, although  at  the  same  time  she  seemed  to 
live  closer  to  him.  She  did  not  seem,  however, 
to  try  to  remember  his  words,  but  to  ponder 
something  they  had  given  her.  Sometimes  she 
would  ask  him  to  help  her  to  understand  what 
he  had  said ;  but  even  then  he  would  not  always 
try  to  make  it  plain.     He  might  but  answer,  — 

"  I  see,  lassie ;  ye  're  no  just  ready  for 't !  It 's 
true,  though ;  and  the  day  maun  come  whan  ye  '11 
see  the  thing  itsel',  and  ken  what  it  is ;  and  that 's 
the  only  w'y  to  win  at  the  trowth  o'  't  !  In  fac' 
to  see  a  thing,  and  ken  a  thing,  and  be  sure  a 
thing's  true,  is  a'  ane  and  the  same  thing!" 
Such  a  word  from  her  father  was  always  enough 
to  still  and  content  the  girl's  mind,  and  then 
things  would  go  on  as  before.  Her  delight  in 
the  child,  instead  of  growing  less,  went  on  in- 
creasing because  of  the  awe  rather  than  dread 
of  having  at  last  to  give  him  up. 


i86 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER   XIX 

All  this  time  the  minister  remained  moody, 
apparently  sunk  in  contemplation,  but  indeed 
mostly  brooding,  and  not  meditating  either  form 
or  truth.  Sometimes  he  felt  indeed  as  if  he  were 
losing  altogether  his  power  of  thinking  —  espe- 
cially when  in  the  middle  of  the  week  he  sat 
down  to  find  something  to  say  on  the  Sunday. 
He  had  greatly  lost  interest  in  the  questions  that 
had  occupied  him  so  much  while  yet  a  student, 
imagining  himself  in  preparation  for  what  he 
called  the  ministry ;  for  how  was  one  to  minister 
who  had  not  yet  learned  to  obey,  and  had  never 
sought  anything  but  his  own  glorification  ?  What 
interest  could  there  be  in  a  profession  where  all 
was  but  profession?  What  pleasure  could  he 
find  in  holy  labour  who  did  not  indeed  offer  his 
pay  to  purchase  the  Holy  Ghost,  but  offered  the 
Holy  Ghost  himself  to  purchase  a  living?  No 
wonder  he  found  himself  at  length  in  lack  of  talk 
wherewith  to  purchase  his  one  thing  needful. 
He  had  always  been  more  or  less  dependent  on 
commentaries  for  the  joint,  and  even  for  the 
187 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

cooking  of  it;  and  it  was  no  wonder  that  his 
guests  should  show  less  and  less  appetite  for 
the  dinners  he  provided  them ! 

The  hungry  sheep  looked  up  and  were  not  fed  ! 
To  have  food  to  give  them  he  must  think!  to 
think,  he  must  be  in  peace !  to  have  peace  he 
must  forget  himself!  to  forget  himself  he  must 
walk  in  the  truth !  to  walk  in  the  truth  he  must 
love  God  and  his  neighbour  I  Even  to  have  in- 
terest in  the  dry  bone  of  criticism,  which  alone 
he  could  find  in  his  larder,  he  must  broil  it,  and 
so  burn  away  in  the  slow  fire  of  his  damp  intel- 
lect every  scrap  of  meat  left  upon  it !  His  last 
relation  to  his  work  was  departing  from  him,  to 
leave  him  lord  of  a  dustheap.  He  grubbed  and 
nosed  and  scraped  dog-like  in  the  unsavoury 
mound,  but  could  not  uncover  a  single  scrap 
that  smelt  of  provender.  The  morning  came  at 
last  when  he  recognised,  with  a  burst  of  agonis- 
ing sweat,  that  he  dared  not  stand  up  before  his 
congregation :  not  one  written  word  had  he  to 
read  to  them;  and  extempore  utterance  was, 
from  very  vacancy,  impossible  to  him :  he  could 
not  think  of  even  one  meaningless  phrase  word 
to  articulate  !  He  flung  his  Concordance  sprawl- 
ing upon  the  floor,  snatched  up  his  hat  and 
clerical  cane,  and,  scarce  knowing  what  he  did, 
found  himself  standing  at  the  soutar's  door, 
where  already  he  had  knocked,  without  a  notion 
188 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

in  his  head  of  anything  he  was  come  to  seek. 
The  old  parson,  generally  in  a  mood  to  quarrel 
with  the  man  he  sought,  had  always  gone  straight 
into  his  workshop  without  warning,  and  always 
been  glad  once  more  to  see  him  crouched  there 
over  his  work ;  but  the  new  parson  waited  help- 
less on  the  doorstep  for  Maggie,  whom  he  did 
not  want  to  see,  to  admit  him  to  one  to  whom 
he  had  nothing  to  say. 

She  was  occupied  with  her  precious  charge, 
and  a  few  moments  passed  before  she  appeared ; 
but  she  had  opened  the  door  wide  before  the 
caller  had  begun  to  discover  what  he  might  pre- 
tend to  be  in  want  of.  In  the  last  extremity  of 
invention,  a  feasible  thought  came  to  him  by 
which  he  might  also  avoid  the  cobbler's  deep-set 
black  eyes,  of  which  he  was  always  in  some 
dread,  because  they  seemed  to  probe  searchingly 
his  very  thoughts. 

"  Do  you  think  your  father  would  have  time," 
he  said  humbly,  "  to  measure  me  for  a  pair  of 
light  boots?" 

Mr.  Blatherwick  was  very  particular  about  his 
foot-gear,  and  had  hitherto  always  fitted  himself 
in  the  country  town ;  but  he  had  learned  that 
nothing  he  could  there  buy  ready-made  ap- 
proached in  quality,  either  of  material  or  work- 
manship, what  the  soutar  supplied  to  his  poorest 
customer ;  for,  while  he  would  mend  anything 
189 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

worth  mending,  he  would  never  make  anything 
inferior. 

"Ye '11  get  what  ye  want  at  such  and  such 
place,"  he  would  answer,  "  and  I  doobtna  it  '11 
be  as  guid  as  can  be  made  at  the  siller;  but  for 
my  ain  pairt,  ye  maun  excuse  me  !  " 

"  'Deed,  sir,  he  '11  be  baith  glaid  and  prood  to 
mak'  ye  as  guid  a  pair  o'  boots  as  he  can  com- 
pass," answered  Maggie.  "  Jist  step  in  here,  sir, 
and  lat  him  ken  what  ye  want.  My  bairn 's 
greitin',  and  I  maun  gang  till  him,  for  it 's  seldom 
he  cries  oot !  " 

The  minister  walked  in  at  the  open  door  of 
the  kitchen,  and  met  the  eyes  of  the  soutar 
expectant. 

"  Ye  're  welcome,  sir,"  said  MacLear,  and 
returned  his  eyes  to  the  labour  he  had  for  a 
moment  interrupted. 

"  Will  you  make  me  a  nice  pair  of  boots,  Mr. 
MacLear?  I  am  somewhat  particular  about  the 
fit !  "  said  the  minister,  as  cheerily  as  he  could. 

"  I  '11  do  what  I  can,  sir ;  but  wi'  mair  readi- 
ness nor  confidence,"  answered  the  shoemaker. 
"  I  canna  profess  assurance  o'  fittin'  the  first 
time,  no  haein'  the  necessar'  instinc'  frae  the 
mak'  o'  the  man  to  the  shape  o'  the  fut,  sir." 

"  Of  course  I  should  like  them  both  neat  and 
comfortable,"  said  the  parson. 

"  In  coorse  ye  wad,  sir,  and  sae  would  I !  I 
190 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

would  hae  customers  tak'  note  o'  my  success  in 
followin'  the  paittern  set  afore  me  i'  the  individ- 
ooal  fut." 

"  But  you  will  allow,  I  suppose,  that  a  foot  is 
seldom  as  perfect  now  as  when  the  divine  idea 
of  the  member  was  first  embodied  by  its  Maker  ?  " 
rejoined  the  minister. 

"  Ow,  ay;  there's  been  mony  an  interferin' 
circumstance;  but  whan  his  kingdom's  come, 
things  'II  tak'  an  upward  turn  for  the  redemption 
o'  the  feet  as  weel  as  the  lave  o'  the  body  —  as 
the  Apostle  Paul  says  i'  the  twenty-third  verse  o' 
the  aucht  chapter  o'  his  epistle  to  the  Romans ; 
—  only  I  'm  weel  advised  there  's  no  sic  a  thing 
as  adoption  mentioned  i'  the  original  Greek,  sir- 
That  can  hae  no  pairt  in  what  fowk  ca's  the  plan 
o'  salvation  —  as  gien  the  consumin'  fire  o'  the 
Love  eternal  could  be  ca'd  d^plaiif  Hech,  min- 
ister, it  scunners  me  !  —  But  for  the  fut,  it 's  aye 
perfec'  eneuch  to  be  my  pattern,  for  it 's  the  only 
ane  I  hae  to  follow !  It 's  himsel'  sets  the 
shape  o'  the  shune  this  or  that  man  maun  weir !  " 

"  That 's  very  true  —  and  the  same  applies  to 
every  thing  a  man  cannot  help.  A  man  has  his 
make  and  his  circumstances  to  do  the  best  he  can 
with,  and  sometimes  they  seem  not  to  fit  each 
other  so  well  as,  I  hope,  your  boots  will  fit  my 
feet." 

"  Ye  're  richt  there,  sir  —  only  that  no  man  's 
191 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

bun'  to  follow  his  inclinations  or  his  circum- 
stances, ony  mair  than  he  's  bun'  to  alter  his  fut 
to  the  shape  o'  a  ready-made  bute !  But  hoc 
wull  ye  hae  them  made,  sir?  —  I  mean  what 
fashion  o*  bute  wud  ye  hae  me  mak'  them?" 

"Oh,  I  leave  that  to  you,  Mr.  MacLear  —  a 
sort  of  half-wellington,  I  suppose  —  a  neat  pair 
of  short  boots." 

"  I  understand,  sir." 

"  But  now  tell  me,"  said  the  minister,  moved 
by  a  sudden  impulse,  "  what  you  think  of  this 
new  fad,  if  it  be  nothing  worse,  of  the  Eng- 
lish clergy  —  I  mean  about  confession  to  the 
priest.  I  see  they  have  actually  prevailed  upon 
that  wretched  creature  we've  all  been  reading 
about  in  the  papers  lately  to  confess  the  murder 
of  her  little  brother.  Do  you  think  they  had 
any  right  to  do  that?  Remember,  the  jury 
had  acquitted  her." 

" And  has  she  railly  confessed?     I  atn 

glaid  o'  that !  I  only  wuss  they  could  get  a 
haud  o'  Madelaine  Smith  as  weel,  and  persuaud 
her  to  confess !  Eh,  the  state  o'  that  puir  cra- 
tur's  conscience !  It  'maist  gars  me  greet  to 
think  o'  't !  Gien  she  but  confess,  houp  wad 
spring  to  life  in  her  sin-oppressed  soul !  Eh, 
but  it  maun  be  a  great  lichtenin'  to  that  puir 
Miss  Kent !     I  'm  richt  glaid  to  hear  o'  't." 

"  I  did  n't  know,  Mr.  MacLear,  that  you 
192 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

favoured  the  priesthood  to  such  an  extent. 
We  clergy  of  the  Presbyterians  are  not  in  the 
way  of  turning  detectives,  or  acting  as  agents 
of  human  justice.  There  is  no  one,  guilty  or 
not,  but  is  safe  with  us." 

"  As  with  any  confessor,  Papist  or  Protes- 
tant," said  the  soutar ;  "  and  if  I  understand  your 
news,  sir,  it  can  only  mean  that  they  persuaded 
the  poor  soul  to  confess  her  guilt,  and  so  put 
herself  safe  in  the  hands  of  God !  " 

"  But  is  not  that  to  come  between  God  and 
the  sinner?  " 

"  Doubtless,  sir,  —  but  only  in  order  to  bring 
them  together;  to  persuade  the  sinner  to  the 
first  step  toward  reconciliation  with  God,  and 
peace  in  his  own  mind." 

"That  could  be  had  without  intervention  of 
the  priest !  " 

"  Yes,  but  not  without  the  consenting  will  of 
the  sinner !  And  in  this  case  she  would  not, 
and  did  not  confess  until  so  persuaded  !  " 

"  They  had  no  right  to  threaten  her,  as  if  the 
power  lay  with  them  !  " 

"  If  they  did  so,  they  were  wrong;  but  in  any 
case  they  did  for  her  the  best  they  knew !  And 
they  did  get  her,  you  tell  me,  to  confess,  and  so 
cast  from  her  the  misery,  the  horror  of  carrying 
about  in  her  secret  heart  the  knowledge  of  an 
unforgiven  crime  !  Christians  of  all  denomina- 
'3  193 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

tions,  I  presume,  hold  that,  to  be  forgiven,  a  sin 
must  be  confessed  !  " 

"Yes,  to  God, —  that  is  enough!  No  man 
has  a  right  to  know  the  sins  of  his  neighbour !  " 

"  Not  even  the  man  against  whom  the  sin  was 
committed?  " 

•'  Suppose  the  sin  has  never  come  abroad,  but 
remained  hidden  in  the  heart,  is  a  man  bound  to 
confess  it?  Is  he,  for  instance,  bound  to  tell  his 
neighbour  that  he  used  to  hate  him  and  in  his 
heart  wish  him  evil?  " 

"  The  time  micht  come  whan  to  confess  even 
that  would  ease  the  hert ;  but  in  sic  a  case,  the 
man's  first  duty,  it  seems  to  me,  would  be  to 
watch  for  an  opportunity  o'  deein'  that  neigh- 
bour a  kin'ness.  Where  a  man,  however,  has 
done  an  injustice,  an  open  wrong  to  a  neighbour, 
he  has  no  ch'ice  but  confess  it:  that  neighbour 
is  the  one  from  whom  he  has  to  ask  and  receive 
forgiveness :  he  alone,  if  the  offender  can  get  at 
him,  can  lift  the  burden  aff  o'  him !  It  is  his 
duty,  on  anither  possible  gr'un'  also,  namely, 
that  the  blame  be  na  laid  at  the  door  o'  some  in- 
nocent man.  And  the  author  o'  nae  offence  can 
afford  to  forget,"  ended  the  soutar,  "  hoo  the 
Lord  said,  '  There  's  nae  thing  happit-up,  but  it 
maun  come  to  the  licht'?  " 

Now  what  could  have  led  the  minister  so  near 
the  truth  of  his  own  story,  like  the  murderer 
194 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

who  haunts  the  proximity  of  the  loudest  witness 
to  his  crime,  except  the  will  of  God  working  in 
him  to  set  him  free,  I  do  not  know ;  but  he  went 
on,  driven  by  an  impulse  he  neither  understood 
nor  suspected :  — 

"  Suppose  the  thing  not  known,  however,  or 
likely  to  be  known,  and  that  the  man's  confes- 
sion, instead  of  serving  any  good  end,  could 
only  destroy  his  reputation  and  usefulness,  and 
bring  bitter  grief  upon  those  who  loved  him, 
and  nothing  but  shame  to  the  one  he  had 
wronged  —  what  would  you  say  then?  You  will 
please  to  remember,  Mr.  MacLear,  that  I  am 
putting  an  entirely  imaginary  case,  and  for  the 
sake  of  argument  only." 

"Eh,  but  I  doobt  —  I  doobt  yer  imaiginary 
case !  "  murmured  the  soutar  to  himself,  hardly 
daring  even  to  think  his  thought  clearly,  lest 
somehow  it  should  reveal  itself,  "  Even  then," 
he  replied,  "  it  seems  to  me  the  offender  maun 
cast  aboot  him  for  ane  he  can  trust,  and  to  him 
reveal  the  haill  affair,  that  he  may  get  help  to 
see  and  do  what's  richt  aboot  it.  It  mak's  an 
unco  difference  upon  a  thing  to  luik  at  it  throuw 
anither  man's  een,  i'  the  licht  o'  anither  man's 
conscience  !  hae  caused  sair  evil,  that  is,  mair 
injustice,  nor  the  man  himsel'  kens?  And  what 's 
the  reputation  ye  speak  o',  or  what 's  the  eesefu'- 
ness  o'  sic  a  man  worth?  Isna  his  hoose  biggit 
195 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

upon  the  leein'  sand  ?  What  kin'  a  usefulness  can 
that  be  that  has  for  its  foundation  hypocrisy? 
Awa'  wi'  't  a'thegither.  Let  him  flee  frac  the 
pooer  o'  't !  Lat  him  destroy  't !  Lat  him  cry 
oot  to  a'  the  warl,  '  I  am  a  worm,  and  no  man !  ' 
Lat  him  cry  oot  to  his  Maker,  '  I  am  a  beast 
afore  thee  !  Lat  me  dee,  gien  sae  thoo  wull,  but 
deliver  my  sowl  by  this  my  confession ' !  " 

As  the  soutar  spoke,  overcome  by  sympathy 
with  the  sinner,  whom  he  could  not  help  feeling 
in  bodily  presence  before  him,  the  minister 
stood  listening  with  a  face  pale  as  death,  pale 
with  a  deadly  fear  of  shame. 

"  For  God's  sake,  minister,"  went  on  the 
soutar,  "  gien  ye  hae  ony  sic  thing  upo'  yer  min', 
mak'  haste  and  oot  wi'  't.  I  dinna  say  to  me,  but 
to  somebody.  Mak'  a  clean  breist  o'  't,  afore  the 
Adversary  has  ye  again  by  the  thrapple !  " 

But  here  started  up  in  the  minister  the  pride 
of  conscious  superiority  in  station  and  learning: 
what  a  liberty  taken  by  a  shoemaker  from  whom 
he  had  just  ordered  a  pair  of  boots  !  He  drew 
himself  up  to  his  lanky  height,  and  made 
reply :  — 

"I  am  not  aware,  Mr.  MacLear,  that  I  have 
given  you  any  pretext  for  addressing  me  in  such 
terms.  As  I  told  you,  I  was  putting  a  case,  a 
very  possible  one,  indeed,  but  not  the  less  a 
merely  imaginary  one  !  But  you  have  made  me 
196 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

see  how  unsafe  it  is  to  enter  into  any  argument 
on  a  supposed  case  with  one  of  limited  educa- 
tion and  outlook !  It  is  my  own  fault,  however, 
and  I  beg  your  pardon  for  having  thoughtlessly 
led  you  into  such  a  blunder !    Good  morning !  " 

As  the  door  closed  behind  the  parson,  he  be- 
gan to  felicitate  himself  on  having  so  happily 
turned  aside  the  course  of  their  conversation,  of 
which  he  now  first  recognised  the  dangerous 
drift;  but  he  little  thought  how  much  he  had 
already  conveyed  to  a  mind  and  observation 
so  well  schooled  in  the  symptoms  of  human 
unrest. 

"  I  must  set  a  better  watch  over  my  thoughts," 
he  said  to  himself,  "  lest  they  betray  me  !  "  thus 
resolving  to  conceal  himself  yet  more  from  the 
one  man  in  the  place  who  saw  and  would  have 
cut  for  him  the  snare  of  the  fowler. 

"  I  was  ower  hasty,"  said  the  soutar  on  his 
part.  "  But  I  think  the  truth  has  ta'en  some 
grup  o'  'im.  His  conscience  is  waukin'  up,  I 
fancy,  and  growlin'  a  bit;  and  whaur  that  dog 
has  ance  a  haud,  he  's  no  ready  to  lowsen  or  lat 
it  gang!  We  maun  jist  lie  quaiet  a  bit,  and 
see  !     His  hoor  'ill  come  !  " 

The  minister,  being  one  who  turned  pale  in 

his  anger,   walked  home   with  a  face   of  such 

corpse-like   whiteness,  that  a  woman   who    met 

him  said  to  herself,  "  What  can  ail  the  minis- 

197 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

tcr,  bonny  laad  !  He  's  luikin'  as  scared  as  a 
corp !  That  fule  body,  the  soutar,  's  been 
angerin'  him  wi'  his  havers !  " 

The  first  thing  he  did,  notwithstanding,  was  to 
turn  to  the  chapter  and  verse  the  soutar  had  in- 
dicated, which  through  all  his  mental  commo- 
tion had,  rather  oddly,  remained  unruffled  in  his 
memory  —  only  to  find,  however,  that  the  pas- 
sage suggested  nothing  out  of  which  he  could 
fabricate  a  sermon.  How  could  it  be  otherwise 
with  one  who  was  quite  content  to  have  God 
nearer  him  than  a  merely  adoptive  father  !  He 
found  at  the  same  time  that  his  late  interview 
had  rendered  the  machinery  of  his  thought- 
factory  no  fitter  than  before  for  the  weaving  of 
a  tangled  wisp  of  loose  ends  into  the  homoge- 
neous web  of  a  sermon ;  and  at  last  found  him- 
self driven  to  his  old  stock  of  carefully  preserved 
preordination  sermons,  where  he  was  specially 
unhappy  in  his  choice  of  one  least  of  all  fitted 
to  awake  comprehension  or  interest  in  his 
audience. 

His  selection  made,  and  the  rest  of  the  day 
clear  for  inaction,  he  wrote  a  letter.  Ever  since 
his  fall  he  had  been  successfully  practising  the 
throwing  of  sops  straight  into  one  or  other  of 
the  throats  of  the  triple-headed  Cerberus,  his 
conscience,  which  was  more  clever  in  catching 
them  than  they  were  in  choking  the  said  howler; 
198 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

and  one  of  such  sops,  the  said  letter,  was  the 
result  of  his  talk  with  the  soutar.  Addressed  to 
an  old  divinity  classmate,  it  was  mere  gowk- 
spittle,  with  the  question  inside  it  for  core  of  the 
spittle  —  whether  his  friend  had  ever  heard  of 
the  little  girl  —  he  could  just  remember  the 
name  and  pretty  face  of  her  —  Isy,  general 
slavey  to  her  aunt's  lodgers  in  the  Canongate, 
of  whom  he  was  one:  he  had  often  wondered, 
he  said,  what  had  become  of  her,  for  he  had 
been  almost  in  love  with  her  for  half  a  year  at 
Deemouth ;  and  I  cannot  but  take  the  enquiry 
as  a  mere  pretence,  with  the  object  of  deceiving 
himself  into  the  notion  that  he  had  made  at 
least  one  attempt  to  discover  her.  His  friend 
forgot  to  answer  his  question,  and  Blatherwick 
never  reminded  him  of  it. 


199 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER   XX 

Never  dawned  Sunday  upon  soul  more  wretched. 
He  had  not,  indeed,  to  climb  into  his  watchman's 
tower  without  the  pretence  of  a  proclamation, 
but  on  that  very  morning  his  father  had  put  the 
mare  between  the  shafts  of  the  gig  to  drive  his 
wife  to  Tiltbowie,  and  their  son's  church,  instead 
of  one  in  the  next  parish,  nearer  and  more 
accessible,  where  they  were  oftener  the  way  of 
going.  And  it  is  not  wonderful  that  they 
should  have  found  themselves  so  dissatisfied 
with  the  spiritual  food  laid  before  them,  as  to 
wish  heartily  that  they  had  remained  at  home, 
or  driven  to  the  nearer  church.  The  moment 
the  service  was  over,  Mr.  Blatherwick  felt  even 
more  than  inclined  to  drive  home  without  wait- 
ing for  an  interview  with  James ;  for  there  was 
no  remark  he  could  make  on  the  sermon  that 
would  be  pleasant  either  for  his  son  or  his 
wife  to  hear;  but  Marion  combated  his  resolve 
with  entreaties  that  grew  even  angry,  until  at 
last  Peter  was  compelled  to  give  sullenly  in, 
and  they  waited  in  the  churchyard  for  his 
appearance. 

200 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

"Weel,  Jamie,"  said  his  father,  shaking  hands 
with  him  hmply,  for,  though  for  different  reasons, 
both  their  hearts  were  full  of  conscious  discom- 
fort," yon  was  a  dish  o'  some  steeve  parritch  ye 
gied  us  this  mornin' !  In  fac'  the  meal  itsel'  was 
baith  auld  and  soor  !  " 

The  mother  said  not  a  word,  but  gave  her 
son  a  pitiful  smile;  and  he,  haunted  by  the  taste 
of  failure  which  his  sermon  had  left  in  his  own 
mouth,  and  troubled  as  well  by  sub-conscious 
motions  of  a  gradually  waking  self-recognition, 
found  it  scarce  possible  to  look  his  father  in  the 
face,  feeling  as  if  he  had  been  just  rebuked  by 
him  before  all  the  congregation. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  "  you  do  not  know  how 
difficult  it  is  to  preach  a  fresh  sermon  every 
Sunday!" 

"  Ca' ye  yon  fresh,  Jamie?  It  was  mair  like 
the  fuistit  husks  o*  the  half-faimisht  swine ! 
Man,  I  wuss  sic  provender  would  drive  yersel' 
whaur  there  's  better  and  to  spare  !  Ye  canna  help 
kenning  yon  for  neither  brose  nor  stourum  !  " 

James  made  a  wry  face,  and  the  sight  of  his 
annoyance  broke  the  thin  ice  that  had  gathered 
over  the  wellspring  in  his  mother's  heart;  for  a 
brief  moment  the  minister  was  her  boy  again. 
But  he  gave  her  no  filial  response ;  his  own 
ambition,  and  the  praise  of  worthy  men,  had 
blocked  the  natural  movements   of  the   divine 

20I 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

in  him,  and  turned  aside  his  wholesomest  im- 
pulses. He  received,  however,  the  conviction 
that  his  parents  had  never  had  any  sympathy 
with  his  preaching,  and  this  reacted  in  a  sudden 
cold  flow  of  resentment,  and  a  thickening  of 
the  ice  between  them.  Some  fundamental 
shock  must  surely  be  necessary  to  unsettle  and 
dislodge  that  overmastering  ice,  if  ever  his  win- 
tered heart  was  to  feel  the  power  of  a  reviving 
spring ! 

The  whole  threesum  family  stood  in  forced 
silence  for  a  few  moments;  then  the  father  said 
to  the  mother,  — 

"  I  doobt  we  maun  be  settin*  oot  for  hame !  " 

"  Will  you  not  come  into  the  manse,  and  have 
something  before  you  go?  "  answered  James, 
not  without  anxiety  lest  his  housekeeper  should 
be  taken  at  unawares,  and  annoyed  by  their  ac- 
ceptance ;  he  lived  in  constant  dread  of  offending 
her,  for  he  feared  her  searching  eyes. 

"Na,  I  thank  ye,"  returned  his  father:  "it 
wad  taste  o'  stew !  "  {blown  dust.) 

It  was  a  rude  remark ;  but  Peter  was  not  in  a 
kind  mood ;  and  when  love  itself  is  unkind,  it  is 
burning  and  bitter  and  merciless.  Marion  burst 
into  tears.  James  turned  away,  and  walked 
home  with  a  gait  of  wounded  dignity.  Peter 
went  to  interrupt  with  the  bit  the  mare's  feed 
of  oats  by  the  churchyard  gate.  His  wife  saw 
202 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

his  hands  tremble  pitifully  as  he  put  the  head- 
stall over  the  creature's  ears,  and  reproached 
herself  that  she  had  given  him  such  a  cold- 
hearted  son.  She  climbed  in  a  helpless  way 
into  the  gig,  and  sat  waiting  for  her  husband  to 
take  his  place  beside  her,  which  he  did  with  the 
remark,  — 

"  I  'm  that  drowthy  I  could  drink  cauld 
watter !  " 

They  drove  away  from  the  place  of  tombs,  but 
carried  death  with  them,  and  left  the  sunlight 
behind  them. 

Neither  spoke  a  word  all  the  way  —  not  until 
she  was  dismounting  at  their  own  door,  did  the 
mother  venture  even  the  remark,  "  Eh,  sirs !  " 
which  meant  a  world  of  unexpressed  and  inex- 
pressible misery.  She  went  straight  up  to  the 
little  garret  where  she  kept  her  Sunday  bonnet, 
and  used  to  say  her  prayers  when  in  especial 
misery,  and  thence,  having  placed  the  venerated 
adornment  in  the  sacred  chest,  went  to  her  bed- 
room, where  she  washed  her  face,  and  prepared 
to  encounter  the  dinner  Isy  had  got  ready  for 
them  —  hoping  to  hear  something  about  the 
sermon,  perhaps  even  some  little  word  about 
the  minister  himself.  But  Isy,  too,  must  share 
in  the  disappointment  of  that  glorious  Sunday 
morning.  Not  a  word  passed  between  the  two. 
Their  son  was  the  shepherd,  indeed,  but  rather 
203 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

the  keeper  of  the  sheepfold  than  of  the  sheep. 
Over  the  church  he  was  very  careful  that  it 
should  be  properly  swept  and  sometimes  even 
garnished,  but  of  the  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
the  hearts  of  his  sheep,  he  knew  nothing !  The 
gloom  of  his  parents,  their  sense  of  failure  and 
loss,  grew  and  grew  all  the  dull  hot  afternoon, 
until  to  both  of  them  it  seemed  almost  to  pass 
their  power  of  endurance.  At  last,  however,  it 
abated,  as  does  every  pain,  for  life  is  at  its  root; 
thereto  ordained,  it  slew  itself  by  exhaustion. 
"  But,"  said  the  mother  to  herself,  "  there 's 
Monday  comin',  and  what  am  I  to  do  !  "  For 
she  felt  that  with  the  new  day  would  return  the 
old  trouble,  the  gnawing,  sickening  pain  that 
she  was  childless  —  her  daughter  gone,  and  no 
son  left.  None  the  less,  however,  when  the 
new  day  came,  it  brought  with  it  its  own  new 
possibility  of  living  yet  one  day  more. 

But  the  minister,  although  he  did  not  know  it, 
was  much  more  to  be  pitied  than  those  whose 
misery  he  was.  All  night  long  he  had  slept  with 
a  sense  of  ill-usage  sub-lying  his  consciousness 
and  dominating  his  dreams ;  but  with  the  sun 
came  a  doubt  whether  he  had  not  acted  in  a  way 
unseemly  when  he  turned  and  left  his  father  and 
mother  alone  in  the  churchyard.  Of  course 
they  had  not  treated  him  well ;  but  what  would 
any  of  his  congregation  —  and  some  might  have 
204 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

happened  to  be  lingering  in  the  churchyard  — 
think  to  have  seen  them  part  as  they  did? 
What  would  the  scene  have  looked  like?  He 
did  not  answer  himself,  however,  that  it  would 
have  looked  what  it  was,  and  justified  a  severe 
judgment  on  him !  He  thought  only  to  take 
precaution  against  such  a  judgment. 

When  he  had  had  his  breakfast,  he  set  out,  his 
custom  of  a  Monday  morning  after  the  fatigues 
of  the  Sunday,  for  what  he  called  a  quiet  stroll, 
but  his  thoughts  would  keep  returning,  and  that 
with  ever  fresh  resentment,  to  the  soutar's 
insinuation — for  such  he  counted  it  —  on  the 
Saturday;  when  suddenly,  all  uninvited,  and 
displacing  the  mental  phantasm  of  her  father, 
arose  before  him  that  of  Maggie,  as  he  had  seen 
her  turn  from  him  that  same  Saturday  morning 
with  an  embarrassed  flush ;  and  with  it  the  sud- 
den question.  What  baby  was  it  on  which  she 
seemed  so  constantly  to  spend  her  devotion?  he 
had  never  heard  of  brother  or  sister !  and  it 
would  be  strange  were  there  such  a  difference 
of  age  between  them  !  Could  it  be  Maggie  her- 
self made  a  slip?  With  the  idea  arose  in  him  a 
certain  satisfaction  in  the  possible  prospect  of 
learning  that  this  man,  so  ready  to  believe  evil 
of  his  neighbour,  had  not  succeeded  in  keeping 
his  own  house  undefiled.  He  rebuked  himself 
the  next  moment,  it  is  true,  in  a  mild  fashion, 
205 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

for  harbouring  even  the  ghost  of  satisfaction  in 
the  wrong-doing  of  another:  it  was  rejoicing  in 
iniquity  unbefitting  the  pastor  of  a  Christian 
flock !  It  was,  however,  he  said,  for  himself 
only,  but  presently  he  pardoned  a  passing 
thought,  against  whose  entrance  he  had  not 
been  warned  in  time !  But  it  came  and  came 
again,  and  he  took  no  continuous  trouble  to 
cast  it  out.  When  he  returned  from  his  walk, 
he  warily  asked  his  housekeeper  about  the 
little  one,  but  she  only  shook  her  head  know- 
ingly, as  if  she  knew  more  than  she  chose  to 
tell.  It  shows  how  little  he  had  moved  among 
his  flock  that  he  had  never  heard  how  the  child 
came  to  be  in  the  soutar's  house. 

After  his  early  dinner,  he  thought  it  would  be 
well  to  forgive  his  parents  and  call  at  Stone- 
cross  :  that  would  tend  to  wipe  out  any  undesir- 
able conclusion  their  hurried  parting  might  have 
left  on  the  minds  of  his  parents,  and  to  prevent 
any  breath  of  gossip  from  injuring  him  in  his 
sacred  profession !  He  had  not  been  to  see 
them  for  a  long  time;  and  although  such  visits 
gave  him  no  satisfaction,  he  never  dreamed  of 
attributing  it  to  his  own  want  of  cordiality,  while 
he  judged  it  well  to  avoid  any  appearance  of 
evil,  and  therefore  thought  it  his  duty  to  pay 
them  a  hurried  call  about  once  a  month.  Now, 
upon  reflection,  he  saw  it  must  be  nearly  three 
206 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

months  since  last  he  had  been  at  the  place,  but 
he  excused  himself  because  of  the  distance,  and 
his  not  being  a  good  walker !  Even  now  he 
was  in  no  haste  to  set  out,  and  had  a  long 
snooze  in  his  armchair  first;  so  that  it  was  the 
evening  when  he  climbed  the  hill  and  came  in 
sight  of  the  low  gable  behind  which  he  was 
born. 

Isy  was  in  the  garden  gathering  up  the  linen 
she  had  spread  to  dry  on  the  gooseberry  bushes, 
when  his  head  came  in  sight  at  the  top  of  the 
brae.  She  knew  him  at  once,  and,  stooping 
behind  the  bushes,  fled  to  the  back  of  the  house, 
and  so  away  to  the  moor.  James  saw  the  white 
flutter  of  a  sheet,  but  nothing  of  her  who  took 
it,  neither  heard  any  allusion  to  her  presence 
at  the  farm.  He  had,  indeed,  heard  that  his 
mother  had  a  very  nice  young  woman  to  help 
her  in  the  house,  but  he  had  so  little  interest 
in  home-affairs  that  the  news  waked  in  him  no 
curiosity. 

Ever  since  she  came,  Isy  had  been  on  the  out- 
look lest  James  should  unexpectedly  surprise 
her,  and  be  surprised  into  an  unwitting  dis- 
closure of  his  relation  to  her;  and  not  even  by 
the  long  deferring  of  her  hope  to  see  him  yet 
again,  had  she  come  to  pretermit  her  vigilance; 
for  the  longer  he  delayed,  the  more  certain  it 
became  that  he  must  soon  appear.  She  had  not 
207 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

intended  to  avoid  him  altogether,  only  not  to 
startle  him  into  any  unintentional  recognition 
of  her  in  the  presence  of  his  mother.  But 
when  she  saw  him  approaching  the  house,  her 
courage  failed  her,  and  she  fled  to  avoid  the 
danger  of  betraying  both  herself  and  him. 
She  was,  in  truth,  ashamed  of  meeting  him, 
feeling  guiltily  exposed  to  his  just  reproaches. 
All  the  time  he  remained  with  his  mother, 
she  kept  watching  the  house,  nor  once  showed 
herself  until  he  was  gone,  when  she  reappeared 
as  if  just  returned  from  roaming  the  moor. 
Her  mistress  imagined  she  still  indulged  the 
hope  of  there  finding  her  baby,  whose  very 
existence  the  elder  woman  doubted,  taking  it 
for  nothing  but  a  half  crazy  survival  from  the 
time  of  her  insanity  before  the  Robertsons 
found  her. 

The  minister  made  a  comforting  peace  with 
his  mother,  telling  her  a  part  of  the  truth, 
namely,  that  he  had  been  much  out  of  sorts 
during  the  week,  and  quite  unable  to  write  a 
new  sermon,  so  had  been  driven  at  the  very  last 
to  take  an  old  one  so  hurriedly  that  he  failed  to 
recall  correctly  the  subject  and  nature  of  it, 
which  he  soon  but  too  late  found  to  be  alto- 
gether unsuitable,  and  that  at  a  moment  fatal 
to  his  equanimity,  when,  discovering  his  par- 
ents in  the  congregation,  he  was  so  dismayed 
208 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

that  he  lost  his  self-possession,  and  from  that 
ensued  his  apparent  lack  of  cordiality.  It  was 
a  lame  excuse,  but  served  to  silence,  if  not  to 
satisfy,  his  mother  at  least.  His  father  was 
out  of  doors,  and  he  did  not  see  him. 


14  209 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER    XXI 

As  time  went  on,  the  terror  of  discovery  grew 
rather  than  abated  in  the  mind  of  the  minister. 
He  did  not  know  whence  or  why  it  was  so,  for 
no  news  of  Isy  reached  him,  and  in  his  cooler 
moments  he  felt  almost  certain  she  could  not 
have  passed  so  completely  out  of  sight  and 
hearing  if  she  were  still  in  the  world.  When 
most  persuaded  of  this,  he  felt  ablest  to  live 
and  forget  the  past,  of  which  indeed,  blotted  as 
it  was  with  a  dangerous  wrong,  he  could  recall 
no  portion  with  satisfaction,  while  its  darkness 
and  silence  gave  it  a  threatening  aspect,  out  of 
which  any  moment  might  burst  the  hidden 
enemy,  the  thing  that  might,  and  must  not  be 
known :  the  thought  was  torture.  At  the  same 
time  he  felt  that,  having  done  nothing  to  hide 
the  miserable  fact,  neither  now  would  he  do 
anything  to  keep  it  secret ;  he  would  leave  all 
to  that  Providence  which  seemed  hitherto  to 
have  wrought  on  his  behalf;  while  he  himself 
only  kept  a  silence  which  no  gentleman  must 
break!  And  why  should  that  come  abroad 
which  Providence  itself  concealed?     Who  had 

210 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

any  claim  to  know  a  mere  passing  fault,  which 
the  partner  in  it  must  least  of  all  desire  ex- 
posed, seeing  it  would  fall  heavier  upon  her 
than  upon  him  ?  Where  then  cculd  be  the  call 
for  confession,  about  which  the  soutar  maun- 
dered so?  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  secret 
should  threaten  to  creep  out,  he  would  not,  he 
flattered  himself,  move  a  finger  to  retain  over  it 
the  veil  of  concealment:  he  would,  on  the  con- 
trary, that  moment  disappear  in  some  trackless 
solitude,  rejoicing  that  the  truth  was  known, 
and  that  he  had  nothing  left  to  wish  hidden  ! 
As  to  the  charge  of  hypocrisy  that  was  sure  to 
follow  such  discovery,  he  was  innocent:  he 
had  never  said  anything  he  did  not  believe ;  he 
had  made  no  professions  but  such  as  were  in- 
volved in  his  position;  never  once  had  he  posed 
as  a  man  of  Christian  experience  —  like  the 
soutar,  for  instance !  Simply  and  only  he  had 
been  overtaken  in  a  fault:  he  never  repeated, 
would  never  repeat  it;  and  was  willing  to  atone 
for  it  in  any  way  he  could  !  It  must  be  remem- 
bered for  him  that  he  was  altogether  in  the  dark 
as  to  the  existence  of  the  little  one. 

Upon  the  Saturday  after  the  minister's  visit 
to  his  parents,  the  soutar  had  been  hard  at  work 
all  day  long  finishing  the  new  boots  which  the 
minister  had  ordered  of  him,  and  which  indeed 
he  had  almost  forgotten  in  his  anxiety  about 

211 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

him  for  whom  he  had  to  make  them.  For  Mac- 
Lear  was  now  thoroughly  convinced  that  the 
young  man  had  "  some  sick  offence  within  his 
mind,"  and  was  the  more  anxious  to  finish  his 
boots  in  time  to  carry  them  home  the  same 
night,  that  he  knew  his  words  had  increased 
the  sickness  of  that  offence,  and  that  he  would 
not  be  sorry  if  opportunity  occurred  for  keeping 
that  same  sickness  alive,  seeing  it  was  the  one 
form  that  returning  health  could  take.  Noth- 
ing attracted  the  soutar  more  than  a  chance  of 
doing  anything  to  lift  from  a  human  soul,  were 
it  but  a  single  fold  of  the  darkness  that  com- 
passed it,  and  so  let  the  light  nearer  to  the 
troubled  heart.  At  the  same  time,  as  to  what 
it  might  be  that  was  harassing  the  minister's 
soul,  he  sternly  repressed  all  curiosity,  and 
indeed  suspected  nothing  of  what  lay  festering 
there.  He  had  no  desire  that  he  should  un- 
bosom himself  to  him,  but  hoped  what  he  said 
would  send  him  to  seeking  counsel  of  some  one 
who  could  help  him,  and  that,  his  displeasure 
gradually  passing,  he  would  resume  his  friendly 
intercourse  with  himself,  for  somehow  there 
was  that  in  the  gloomy  parson  which  powerfully 
attracted  the  cheery  and  hopeful  soutar,  who 
set  down  his  troubled  abstraction  to  the  hunger 
of  his  heart  after  a  spiritual  good  he  had  not 
begun  to  find;  he  could  not,  he  thought,  under- 

212 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

stand  the  good  news  about  God,  —  that  he  was 
to  all  his  children  just  what  Jesus  seemed  to 
them  that  saw  God  in  his  countenance;  he 
could  not  have  learned  from  Jesus  much  of  the 
truth  about  God,  for  it  seemed  to  make  in  him 
no  gladness,  no  power  of  life,  no  strength  to 
be :  for  him  he  had  not  risen,  but  lay  wrapt  in 
the  mummy-cloths,  where  the  women  had  suc- 
ceeded in  embalming  him ;  and  the  larks  and 
the  angels  were  both  mistaken  in  singing  as 
they  did! 

At  such  an  hour  as  made  the  soutar  doubt 
whether  the  housekeeper  might  not  have  retired 
for  the  night,  he  rang  the  bell  of  the  manse- 
door,  and  brought  the  minister  himself  from  his 
study  to  confront  him  with  the  new  boots  in  his 
hand  on  the  other  side  of  the  threshold. 

In  the  meantime,  James  Blatherwick  had 
come  to  see  that  his  late  attempt  at  communi- 
cation with  the  soutar  had  exposed  him  to  a  not 
unnatural  suspicion,  and  was  now  bent  on  re- 
moving the  unfortunate  impression  his  words 
might  have  made.  Wishing  therefore  to  ap- 
pear to  cherish  no  offence  because  of  his  par- 
ishioner's appeal  to  him  when  last  they  parted, 
and  thus  to  obliterate  any  notion  that  a  con- 
fession lurked  behind  his  repented  words,  he 
addressed  him  with  the  abandon  which,  gloomy 
in  spirit  as  he  now  habitually  was,  he  had  yet 
213 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

learned  to  assume  in  a  moment  when  the  mask- 
ing instinct  was  roused  in  him. 

"Oh,  Mr.  MacLear,"  he  said  jocularly,  "I 
am  glad  you  have  just  managed  to  escape 
breaking  the  Sabbath !  You  have  had  a  close 
shave!  It  wants  about  ten  minutes,  hardly 
more,  to  the  awful  hour!  " 

"  I  doobt,  sir,  it  would  hae  broken  the  Saw- 
bath  waur,  to  fail  o'  my  word  for  the  sake  o'  a 
steik  or  twa,  that  maiters  naething  to  God  or 
man,"  returned  the  soutar. 

"Ah,  well,  we  won't  argue  about  it;  but  if 
we  were  inclined  to  be  strict,  the  Sabbath 
began  some  "  —  here  he  looked  at  his  watch  — 
"some  five  hours  and  three-quarters  ago,  that 
is,  at  six  of  the  clock,  Saturday  evening !  " 

"  Hoot,  minister,  ye  ken  ye  're  wrang  there, 
for,  Jew-wise,  it  began  at  sax  o'  the  Friday 
nicht !  But  ye  hae  made  it  plain  frae  the  poopit 
that  ye  hae  nae  supperstition  aboot  the  first  day 
o'  the  week,  which  alane  has  aucht  to  do  wi'  us 
Christians !  We  're  no  a'  Jews,  though  there  's 
a  heap  o'  them  upo'  this  side  o'  the  Tweed ;  and 
I  for  ane  confess  nae  obligation  but  to  drap 
workin'  and  sit  doon  wi'  clean  ban's,  or  as 
clean  as  I  can  weel  mak'  them,  to  the  speeritual 
table  o'  the  Lord,  whan  I  aye  try  also  to  weir  a 
cheerfu'  and  clean  face  —  as  far  as  the  sermon 
will  permit,  and  there  's  aye  a  pyke  o'  mate 
214 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

samewhaur  intill  't !  For  isna  it  the  bonny  day 
whan  the  Lord  wad  hae  us  sit  doon  and  eat  wi' 
himsel',  wha  made  the  heavens  and  the  earth, 
and  the  waters  under  the  earth  that  haud  it  up  ? 
Didna  he  rise  this  day,  and  poor  oot  the  gran' 
reid  wine,  and  say,  '  Sit  ye  doon,  bairns,  and 
tak'  o'  my  best '  ?  " 

"Ay,  ay,  Mr.  MacLear,  that 's  a  fine  way  to 
think  of  the  Sabbath ! "  rejoined  the  minister, 
"and  the  very  way  I  'm  in  the  habit  of  thinking 
of  it  myself.  —  I'm  greatly  obliged  to  you  for 
bringing  home  my  boots;  but  indeed  I  could 
have  managed  very  well  without  them  !  " 

"Ay,  sir,  maybe;  I  dinna  doobt  ye  hae  pairs 
eneuch  for  that,  but  ye  see  1  couldna  do  wV oot 
them,  for  I  \\2A promised.'' 

The  word  struck  the  minister  to  the  heart. 
"He  means  it!"  he  said  to  himself.  "But  I 
never  promised  the  girl  anything!  I  could  not 
have  done  it !  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing! 
I  am  not  bound  by  anything  I  said ! " 

He  never  saw  or  said  to  himself  that,  whether 
he  had  promised  or  not,  his  deed  had  bound 
him  more  absolutely  than  could  any  words. 

All  this  time  he  was  letting  the  soutar  stand 
on  the  doorstep,  with  the  new  boots  in  his 
hand. 

"Come  in,"  he  said  at  last,  "and  put  them 
there  in  the  window.     It's  about  time  we  were 

215 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

all  going  to  bed,  I  think,  —  especially  me,  the 
morn  being  preaching-day!  " 

The  soutar  betook  himself  to  his  home  and 
to  bed,  sorry  that  he  had  said  nothing,  yet  hav- 
ing said  more  than  he  knew. 

The  next  evening  he  listened  to  the  best  ser- 
mon he  had  yet  heard  from  that  pulpit,  —  a 
r6sum6  of  the  facts  bearing  on  the  resurrection 
of  our  Lord,  with  which  sermon,  however,  a 
large  part  of  the  congregation  was  anything  but 
pleased,  because  the  minister  admitted  the  im- 
possibility of  reconciling  in  every  particular  the 
differing  accounts  of  the  doings  and  seeings  of 
those  who  witnessed  it. 

"As  if,"  said  the  soutar,  "the  Lord  wasna  to 
shaw  himsel'  openly  till  a'  that  saw  the  thing 
were  agreed  as  to  their  recollection  o'  what  they 
saw ! " 

He  himself  went  home  edified  and  uplifted 
by  the  fresh  contemplation  of  the  story  of  his 
Master's  victory,  whose  pains  were  over  at  last, 
and  he  through  death  lord  for  ever  over  death 
and  evil,  over  pain  and  loss  and  fear,  who  was 
already,  through  his  Father,  lord  of  creation  and 
life,  and  all  things,  visible  and  invisible,  lord 
of  all  thinking  and  feeling  and  judgment,  able 
to  give  repentance  and  restoration  and  recov- 
ery, and  to  set  right  all  that  self-will  had  set 
wrong.  The  heart  of  his  humble  disciple  re- 
216 


SALTED  WITH  FIRE 

joiced  in  him.  Indeed  he  scandalised  the  repos- 
ing Sabbath-street  by  breaking  out  as  he  went 
home  into  a  somewhat  unmelodious  song,  sing- 
ing, "They  are  all  gone  down  to  hell  with  the 
weapons  of  their  war!  "  to  a  tune  nobody  knew 
but  himself,  and  which  he  could  never  have 
sung  again.  "O  Faithful  and  True,"  he  broke 
out  again  as  he  reached  his  own  door;  but 
stopped  suddenly,  saying,  "Tut,  tut,  the  fowk 
'11  think  I  hae  been  drinkin'  !  —  Eh,"  he  said  to 
himself  as  he  went  in,  "gien  I  micht  but  ance 
hear  the  name  that  no  man  kennet  but  himsel' !  " 

The  next  day  he  was  very  tired,  and  felt  it 
would  be  quite  right  to  take  a  holiday,  although 
it  was  one  of  the  six  days  in  which  the  old 
commandment  enjoined  him  to  labour  and  do 
all  his  work.  So  he  took  a  large  piece  of  oat- 
cake in  his  pocket,  and,  telling  Maggie  he  was 
going  to  the  hills  "to  do  naething  and  a'thing, 
baith  at  ance,  a'  day,"  disappeared  with  a  back- 
ward look  and  a  lingering  smile. 

He  went  brimful  of  expectation,  neither  was 
disappointed  in  those  he  met  by  the  way. 

After  walking  some  distance,  however,  in 
quiescent  peace,  and  having  since  noontide  met 
no  one  —  to  use  his  own  fashion  of  speech — -by 
which  he  meant  that  no  individual  thought 
had  arisen  in  his  mind,  for  he  always  was  ready 
to  regard  a  thought  that  came  suddenly,  with- 
217 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

out  his  having  looked  for  or  invited  its  approach, 
as  a  word  direct  from  the  First  Thought  into 
his.  He  bethought  him  of  Peter  Blatherwick, 
whom  he  had  known  for  many  years,  and  hon- 
oured as  a  genuine  Nathaniel,  a  man  without 
guile;  and  not  having  seen  him  now  for  a  long 
time,  it  was  with  a  rush  of  pleasure  and  confi- 
dence that  he  thought  of  him  again,  and  the 
desire  to  see  him  came  upon  him.  He  had  left 
the  farm  far  behind,  but  he  turned  at  once  his 
face  and  his  feet  toward  Stonecross;  for  the 
farmer's  true  face  was  one  he  was  sure  of  meet- 
ing in  the  kingdom  of  heaven ;  and  now  first  he 
became  aware  of  a  special  reason  for  wishing 
to  see  him ;  he  had  caught  a  sight  of  him  and 
his  wife  as  they  stood  in  the  churchyard  after 
James's  disappointing  sermon,  and  could  not 
help  seeing  that  neither  had  profited  by  it ;  and 
now  he  rejoiced  in  the  thought  of  making  them 
share  in  the  pleasure  and  benefit  he  had  gath- 
ered from  the  sermon  of  yesterday  evening. 
He  went  as  a  messenger  of  good  tidings,  a  wit- 
ness to  the  quality  of  the  food  their  son  then 
laid  before  the  sheep  he  was  appointed  to  feed. 
His  eagerness  to  see  his  friend  increased  as  he 
approached  his  dwelling,  and,  having  knocked 
at  the  door,  stood  attending  on  its  opening. 

To  his  surprise,  the  farmer  came  himself  to 
the  door,  and  stood  there  in  silence,  with  a  look 
218 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

that  seemed  to  say,  "  I  know  you ;  but  what  can 
you  be  wanting  of  me?"  His  face  looked 
troubled,  and  not  merely  sorrowful,  but  scared. 
Usually  ruddy  with  health  and  calm  with  con- 
tent, it  was  now  blotted  with  white  shadows, 
and  seemed,  as  he  held  the  door-handle  with- 
out a  welcome,  that  of  one  who  was  aware  of 
something  unseen  behind  him. 

"What  can  ail  ye,  Mr.  Blatherwick .'' "  asked 
the  soutar  in  a  voice  that  faltered  with  sympa- 
thetic anxiety.  "Surely — I  houp  there's  nae- 
thing  come  ower  the  mistress  !  "  —  for  how  could 
less  than  mishap  to  her  make  her  husband  look 
like  that } 

"  Na,  I  thank  ye;  she's  vera  weel;  but  a 
dreid  thing  has  befa'en  her  and  me.  It  's  little 
mair  nor  an  hoor  sin  syne  'at  oor  Isy  —  ye 
maun  hae  h'ard  tell  o'  Isy,  that  we  baith  had 
sic  a  fawoour  for — a'  at  ance  she  jist  drappit 
doon  deid,  as  gien  shotten  wi'  a  gun.  In  fac' 
I  thoucht  for  a  meenut,  though  I  h'ard  nae  shot, 
that  sic  had  been  the  case.  The  ae  meenut  she 
stude  talkin'  to  her  mistress  i'  the  kitchen,  and 
the  next  she  was  in  a  heap  on  the  flure  o'  't !  — 
But  come  in,  come  in." 

"Eh,    the   bonny   lassie!"    cried   the   shoe- 
maker, without  moving  to  enter;  "I  min'  upo' 
her  weel,  though  I  think  I  never  saw  her  but 
ance!  —  a  fine,  delicat'  pictur'  o'  a  lassie,  that 
219 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

luikit  at  ye  as  gien  she  made  ye  kin'ly  welcome 
to  onything  she  could  gie  or  get  for  ye !  " 

"  Aweel,  as  I  'm  telling  ye,"  said  the  farmer, 
"  she  's  awa' ;  and  we  '11  see  her  no  more  till  the 
earth  gies  up  her  deid.  The  wife  's  in  there 
wi'  what 's  left  o'  her,  greitin'  as  gien  she  wad 
greit  oot  her  een.  Eh,  but  she  lo'ed  her  weel ! 
Doon  she  drappit,  and  never  a  moment  to  say 
her  prayers !  " 

"That  matters  na  muckle, — no  a  hair,  in 
fac' !  "  returned  the  soutar.  "  It  was  the  Father 
o'  her,  nane  ither,  that  took  her.  He  wantit 
her  hame;  and  he  's  no  ane  to  dee  onything  ill, 
or  at  the  wrang  moment !  Gien  a  meenut  mair 
had  been  ony  guid  till  her,  thinkna  ye  she 
would  hae  had  that  meenut  ?  " 

"Willna  ye  come  in  and  see  her?  Some 
fowk  canna  bide  to  luik  upo'  the  deid,  but  ye 
canna  be  ane  o'  sic ! " 

"Na;  it's  trowth  I  daurna  be  nane  o'  sic. 
I  s'  gang  wi'  ye  to  luik  upo'  the  face  o'  ane  'at 's 
won  throuw  richt  wullingly  —  though  the  leev- 
ing  coontenance  maun  aye  be  a  heap  bonnier, 
bein'  mair  like  to  the  Son  o'  Man,  the  first  and 
the  last,  that  can  never  dee !  " 

"Come  awa',  than;  and  maybe  the  Lord  'ill 
gie  ye  a  word  o'  comfort  for  her  mistress,  for 
she  tak's  on  terrible  aboot  her.  It  jist  braks 
my  hert  to  see  her !  " 

220 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"The  hert  o'  king  or  cobbler  's  i'  the  han'  o' 
the  Lord,"  answered  the  soutar  solemnly,  "and 
gien  my  hert  indite  onything,  my  tongue  'ill 
be  ready  to  speyk  the  same." 

He  followed  the  farmer,  who  trode  softly, 
as  if  he  feared  disturbing  the  sleeper,  upon 
whom  even  the  sudden  silences  of  the  world 
would  break  no  more. 

Mr.  Blatherwick  led  the  way  to  the  parlour, 
and  through  it  to  a  closet  behind,  used  as  a 
guest-chamber  when  used  at  all.  There,  on  a 
little  white  bed  with  white  dimity  curtains, 
drawn  entirely  back,  as  if  still  a  hope  was 
cherished  of  her  revival  from  what  at  first  they 
supposed  a  swoon,  lay  the  form  of  Isobel.  The 
eyes  of  the  soutar,  in  whom  had  lingered  yet 
a  hope,  at  once,  although  not  unaccustomed  to 
the  face  of  the  dead,  concluded  that  she  was 
indeed  gone  to  return  no  more.  Her  lovely 
little  face,  although  its  light  was  departed,  and 
its  beautiful  eyes  were  closed,  was  even  love- 
lier than  before.  Her  arms  and  hands  lay 
straight  by  her  sides,  as  if  their  work  was  gone 
from  them,  and  nothing  left  for  them  to  do, 
neither  would  any  voice  again  call  Isy.  Now 
she  might  sleep  on  and  take  her  rest ! 

"I  had  but  to  lay  them  straucht,"  sobbed  her 
mistress;  "her  een  she  had  closed  hersel'  as 
she  drappit  —  deid  at  my  vera  feet !     Eh,  but 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

she  was  a  bonny  lassie  —  and  a  guid,  naething 
less  nor  a  dother  to  me !  " 

"And  a  dother  to  me  as  weel ! "  supple- 
mented Peter,  with  a  burst  of  dry  sobbing. 

"  And  no  ance  had  I  paid  her  a  penny  wage !  " 
exclaimed  Marion,  with  a  sudden  remorseful 
reminiscence  as  of  a  wrong  she  had  done  her. 

"  She  never  wantit  it  —  and  never  wull  noo  — 
or  ance  think  o'  wages!  We  '11  e'en  han'  them 
ower  to  the  hospital,  and  that  '11  ease  yer  min', 
Marion !  "  said  the  more  practical  Peter. 

"  Eh,  she  was  a  dacent,  mensefu',  richt 
lo'able  cratur!"  cried  Marion.  "She  never 
said  naething  to  jeedge  by,  but  I  hae  a  glimmer 
o'  houp  she  may  ha'  been  ane  o'  the  Lord's 
ain." 

"Is  that  a'  ye  can  say,  mem.-*"  interposed 
the  soutar.  "  Sure  ye  widna  daur  imaigine  her 
drappit  oot  o'  his  ban's!" 

"Na,"  returned  Marion;  "but  I  wad  richt 
fain  ken  her  weel  intill  them !  and  wha  is  there 
to  assure  us  she  had  the  needfu'  faith  i'  the 
atonement  ?  " 

"  'Deed,  I  carena,  mem  !  I  houp  she  had  faith 
i'  naither  thing  nor  thoucht  but  the  Lord  him- 
sel' !  Alive  or  deid,  we  're  in  his  ban's  wha 
dee'd  for  us,  revealin'  his  Father,"  said  the 
soutar;  "and  gien  she  didna  ken  him  afore, 
she  wull  noo!     The  holy  All-in-all  be  wi'  her 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

i'  the  dark,  or  whatever  comes  first!  —  O  God, 
hand  up  her  heid,  and  latna  the  watters  gang 
ovver  her!  " 

Anti-Theology  rose,  dull,  rampant,  and  indig- 
nant ;  but  the  solemn  face  of  the  dead  interdicted 
dispute,  and  love  was  ready  to  hope,  if  not  quite 
to  believe.  Nevertheless,  to  those  guileless  two, 
the  words  of  the  soutar  sounded  like  blasphemy : 
was  not  her  fate  settled  for  ever?  Had  not  death 
in  a  moment  turned  her  into  an  immortal  angel 
or  an  equally  immortal  devil?  Only  how,  at 
such  a  moment,  with  the  peaceful  face  before 
them,  were  they  to  argue  the  possibility  that 
she,  the  loving,  the  gentle,  whose  fault  they 
knew  only  by  her  confession,  was  now  as  utterly 
disregarded  by  the  God  of  the  living  as  if  she 
had  never  been  born?  Was  the  same  measure, 
thought  the  soutar,  to  be  meted  to  her  as  to 
him  that  betrayed  the  Holy  One  in  the  garden  of 
his  prayers?  Would  it  have  been  better  for  her, 
too,  that  she  had  never  been  born?  Therefore 
no  one  spoke ;  and  the  soutar,  after  gazing  on 
her  image  for  a  while,  prayer  overflowing  in  his 
heart  but  never  reaching  his  lips,  turned  slowly, 
and  departed  without  a  word. 

Reaching  home  long  before  his  Maggie  ex- 
pected him,  he  told  her  of  the  blow  that  had 
fallen  upon  the  good  people  of  Stonecross. 
Maggie  clasped  her  baby  to  her  bosom,  and 
223 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

was  silent;  she  had  never  even  seen  the  young 
woman,  and  had  never  once  thought  of  her  and 
the  baby  together. 

Just  ere  he  reached  his  own  door,  however, 
he  met  the  parson,  whom,  then  first  remember- 
ing with  what  object  he  had  gone  to  pay  his 
parents  a  visit,  he  told  of  the  condition  in  which 
he  had  found  and  left  them,  adding  that  very 
plainly  they  were  in  sore  need  of  what  sympathy 
it  might  be  in  his  power  to  show  them,  he  so 
representing  the  shock  they  had  received  and 
the  bitterness  of  their  grief,  that  the  young 
minister,  although  he  marvelled  at  their  being 
in  such  trouble  about  the  death  of  merely  a  ser- 
vant, was  roused  to  the  duty  of  his  profession ; 
and  although  his  heart  had  never  yet  drawn 
him  either  to  the  house  of  mourning  or  of  mirth, 
he  judged  it  becoming  to  call  again  at  Stone- 
cross,  and  the  rather,  perhaps,  that  on  the  occa- 
sion of  his  last  visit  neither  had  his  father  left 
his  work  when  he  heard  he  was  in  the  house, 
nor  had  James  gone  to  the  next  field  where  his 
father  was.  It  pleased  the  soutar  that  he  had 
faced  about  in  the  street,  and,  without  going  in 
the  direction  of  the  manse,  started  immediately 
for  the  farm,  with  a  quicker  stride  than,  since  his 
return  to  Tiltbowie  as  its  minister,  he  had  seen 
him  put  on. 

James  had  never  encountered  Isobel  at  his 
224 


SALTED   WITH  FIRE 

father's  house,  and  had  not  the  smallest  antici- 
pation of  whose  face  he  was  about  to  meet  after 
a  separation  so  long.  Had  he  foreseen  what 
was  awaiting  him,  I  cannot  even  conjecture  the 
feeling  with  which  he  would  have  approached 
the  house,  whether  one  of  compunction,  or  one 
of  relief  from  a  haunting  sense  of  danger,  with- 
out which,  revived  and  deepened  by  her  reap- 
pearance at  Deemouth,  he  would  probably  by 
this  time  have  all  but  forgotten  "  the  unfor- 
tunate accident "  from  whose  possible  results 
Providence  seemed  hitherto  to  have  protected 
him.  Utterly  unconscious,  then,  of  the  shock 
toward  which  he  was  rushing,  he  hurried  on 
with  a  faint  pleasure  at  the  thought  of  seeing 
his  mother,  and  having  something  because  of 
which  to  assume  the  superiority  of  expostulation 
with  her.  Toward  his  father,  had  he  ever 
examined  his  consciousness,  he  would  have 
been  aware  of  a  dim  feeling  of  disapproval,  if 
not  of  repugnance.  His  emotional  condition 
toward  him,  if  indeed  in  some  measure  an  un- 
usual one,  was  by  no  means  an  exceptional  or 
solitary  case :  there  are  many  in  the  world  who 
have  not  yet  learned  to  love,  still  less  to  trust 
their  parents,  and  whose  hearts  are  even  now 
waiting  to  surprise  them,  in  a  mode  they  cannot 
foresee  because  incapable  of  understanding  it. 
James  Blatherwick  was  one  of  those,  probably 
IS  225 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

few,  whose  sluggish  natures  require,  for  the 
melting  of  their  stubbornness  and  their  remould- 
ing into  forms  of  strength  and  beauty,  such  a 
concentration  of  the  love  of  God  as  takes  the 
shape  of  a  consuming  fire. 


226 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER   XXII 

The  night  had  fallen  when  he  reached  the  farm. 
The  place  was  silent ;  the  doors  were  all  shut, 
and  when  he  opened  the  nearest,  seldom  used 
but  for  the  reception  of  strangers,  and  walked 
in,  not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen.  No  one  came  to 
meet  him,  for  no  one  had  even  thought  of  or 
desired  his  coming.  He  went  into  the  parlour, 
and  there,  from  the  little  chamber  beyond,  whose 
door  stood  wide  open,  appeared  his  mother. 
Her  heart  big  with  grief,  she  clasped  him  in  her 
arms,  and  laid  her  cheek  against  his  bosom; 
higher  she  could  not  reach,  and  nearer  to  him 
than  his  breast-bone  she  could  not  come.  No 
endearment  had  ever  been  natural  to  James ;  he 
had  never  encouraged  or  missed  any,  neither 
knew  how  to  receive  such  when  perforce  it 
manifested  itself. 

"  I  am  distressed,  mother,"  he  began,  "  to  see 
you  so  upset,  and  cannot  help  thinking  such  a 
display  of  feeling  unnecessary,  and,  if  I  may  say 
so,  unreasonable.  You  cannot,  in  such  a  brief 
period  as  this  new  maid  of  yours  has  been  with 
you,  have  naturally  developed  such  an  affection 
227 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

for  her,  as  this  —  "  he  hesitated  for  a  word  — 
"  as  this  bojilcverseuicnt  would  seem  to  indicate  ! 
The  young  woman  can  hardly  be  a  relative,  or  I 
should  have  heard  of  her  existence.  The  sud- 
denness of  the  occurrence,  of  which  I  heard  from 
my  shoemaker,  MacLear,  must  have  wrought 
disastrously  upon  your  nerves.  Come,  come, 
dear  mother !  you  must  indeed  compose  your- 
self. It  is  quite  unworthy  of  you,  to  yield  to 
such  paroxysms  of  unnatural  and  uncalled-for 
grief  Surely  it  is  the  part  of  a  Christian  like 
you  to  meet  with  calmness,  especially  in  the  case 
of  one  you  have  known  so  little,  that  inevitable 
change  which  neither  man  nor  woman  can  avoid 
longer  than  a  few  years  at  most!  Of  course,  the 
appalling  instantaneousness  of  it  in  the  present 
case  goes  far  to  explain  and  excuse  your  emo- 
tion, but  now  at  least,  after  so  many  hours  have 
elapsed,  it  is  time  for  reason  to  resume  her  sway, 
and  for  calmness  to  succeed  storm  !  Was  it  not 
Schiller  who  said,  '  Death  cannot  be  an  evil,  for 
it  is  universal '?  At  all  events,  it  is  not  an  un- 
mitigated evil!"  he  added  —  with  a  sigh,  as  if 
for  his  part  he  was  prepared  to  welcome  it. 

During  this  prolonged  and  foolish  speech,  the 
gentle  woman,  whose  mother-heart  had  loved  the 
poor  girl  that  bore  her  daughter's  name,  had  been 
restraining  her  sobs  behind  her  handkerchief, 
but  now,  perhaps,  it  was  a  little  wholesome  anger 
228 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

that  woke  as  she  Hstened  to  her  son's  cold  com- 
monplaces, and  made  her  able  to  speak. 

"Ye  didna  ken  her,  laddie,"  she  cried,  "  or  ye 
would  never  mint  at  layin'  yer  tongue  upon  her 
like  that !  —  'Deed,  na,  ye  wouldna  !  I  doobt  gien 
ever  ye  could  hae  come  to  ken  as  she  was  sic  a 
bonny  sowl  as  dwalt  in  yon  white-faced,  patient 
thing,  lyin'  i'  the  chaumer  there,  wi'  the  stang 
oot  o*  her  hert  at  last,  and  left  the  sharper  i' 
mine  !  But  me  and  yer  father,  weel  we  likit  her; 
for  to  hiz  she  was  mair  a  dochter  nor  a  servan', 
wi'  a  braw  lovin'  kin'ness  no  to  be  luikit  for  frae 
ony  son,  wha  's  but  a  man,  and  we  never  had  frae 
ony  lass  but  oor  ain  Isy !  Jistgang  ye  intill  the 
closet  there,  gien  ye  wull,  and  ye  '11  see  some- 
thing that  '11  maybe  saften  yer  hert  a  bit,  and  lat 
ye  un'erstan'  what  mak'  o'  a  thing  's  come  to  the 
twa  auld  fowk  ye  never  cared  sae  muckle  aboot !  " 

James  felt  himself  bitterly  aggrieved  by  this 
personal  allusion  of  his  mother.  How  unfair 
she  was  to  him !  What  had  he  ever  done  to 
offend  her?  He  had  always  behaved  himself 
properly,  —  except  indeed  that  once  when  he 
had  been  betrayed  into  wrong,  —  of  which,  how- 
ever, neither  she,  nor  living  soul  else,  knew  any- 
thing, or  would  ever  know.  What  right  had  she, 
then,  to  say  such  things  to  him?  She  had  never 
done  so  before.  Had  he  not  fulfilled  the  expec- 
tations with  which  his  father  sent  him  to  college? 
229 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

Had  he  not  gained  a  position  the  reflected  splen- 
dour of  which  would  always  crown  them  the 
parents  of  James  Blatherwick?  She  was  behav- 
ing very  ill  to  him,  showing  him  none  of  the 
consideration  and  respect  he  had  so  justly  earned, 
but  never  demanded  of  them.  He  rose  sud- 
denly, and  with  scarce  a  thought  save  to  escape 
from  his  mother  in  a  way  that  must  manifest  his 
displeasure,  left  the  room,  and  walked  heedlessly 
into  the  little  chamber,  and  the  presence  of  the 
more  heedless  dead. 

The  night  had  fallen,  but  the  small  window  of 
the  room  looked  westward,  and  a  bar  of  golden 
light  yet  lay  like  a  resurrection  stone  over  the  spot 
where  the  sun  was  buried.  A  pale  sad  gleam, 
softly  vanishing,  hovered,  hardly  rested,  upon 
the  lovely,  still,  unlocking  face,  that  lay  white  on 
the  scarcely  whiter  pillow.  Coming  out  of  the 
darker  room,  the  sharp,  low  light  blinded  him  a 
little,  and  he  saw  without  any  certainty  of  per- 
ception, yet  seemed  to  have  something  before 
him  altogether  unfamiliar,  giving  him  a  sense 
of  something  he  had  known  once,  perhaps  yet 
ought  to  know,  but  had  forgotten;  the  truth 
concerning  it  seemed  hidden  by  the  strange 
autumnal  light,  which  yet  alone  revealed  it. 
Concluding  himself  oddly  affected  by  the  sight 
of  a  room  he  had  regarded  with  some  awe  in 
his  childhood,  and  had  not  set  foot  in  for  so  long, 
230 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

he  drew,  almost  unconsciously,  a  little  nearer 
to  the  bed,  to  look  closer  at  this  paragon  of 
servants  whose  loss  caused  his  mother  a  sorrow 
so  unreasonably  poignant.  The  sense  of  some- 
thing known  grew  stronger.  Not  even  yet  did 
he  recognise  the  death-changed  countenance, 
but  he  knew  now  that  he  Jiad  seen  that  still  face 
before,  and  knew  also  that,  were  she  but  for  one 
moment  to  open  those  eyes,  he  would  know  who 
she  was.  Then  the  truth  flashed  upon  him ;  it 
was —  Good  God,  could  it  be  the  dead  face  of 
Isy?  It  was  the  merest  nonsensical  fancy! 
Nothing  but  an  illusion  of  the  light  and  darkness 
that  would  not  mingle  properly !  In  the  day- 
light he  could  never  have  been  so  befooled. 
How  could  his  imagination  have  played  so  false 
a  game  with  him  !  Strange  that  he  should  just 
once  be  so  mis-served  by  a  mind  of  unshakable 
sanity  like  his  !  He  had  always  prided  himself 
on  the  clearness,  both  physical  and  mental,  with 
which  he  saw  everything.  Still,  his  foolish 
imagination  had  power  enough  to  fix  him  where 
he  stood,  gazing  on  what  was  only  like,  and 
could  not  be  the  same :  he  could  not  turn  and 
go  from  it.  Why  did  he  not  by  mere  will  force 
himself  out  of  the  room?  Was  it  only  repug- 
nance to  encounter  again  the  unbecoming  tears 
of  his  mother  that  held  him  paralysed?  He 
could  not  stir  a  foot,  but  stared  and  stood.  And 
231 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

as  he  kept  looking,  the  dead  face  grew  upon 
him,  and  kept  telHng  him  who  she  was,  —  grew 
more  and  more  like  the  only  girl  whom  in  any 
sense  he  had  ever  loved.  If  it  was  not  she,  how 
could  the  dead  look  so  like  the  living  he  had 
once  known  and  loved?  At  length  what  doubt 
was  left  changed  at  once  to  the  assurance  that 
this  was  indeed  all  that  he  had  known  of  the  girl 
whom  now  he  could  know  no  more !  And  — 
dare  I  say  it?  —  it  was  but  a  sense  of  relief  the 
assurance  brought  him.  He  breathed  a  sigh  of 
such  peace  as  he  had  not  known  since  his  sin, 
and  with  that  sigh — which  let  my  reader  inter- 
pret as  he  sees  fit —  left  the  room.  Passing  his 
mother,  who  still  wept  in  the  deeper  dusk  of  the 
parlour,  with  the  observation  that  there  was  no 
moon,  and  it  would  be  quite  dark  before  he 
reached  the  manse,  he  bade  her  good-night,  and 
went  out. 

When  Peter,  who,  unable  to  sit  longer  inactive, 
had  gone  to  attend  to  something  in  stable  or 
byre,  now  re-entered  the  room,  and  sat  down 
beside  his  wife,  she  began  to  talk  about  the 
funeral  preparations,  and  the  persons  to  be 
invited.  But  such  grief  overtook  him  afresh, 
that  even  his  wife  was  surprised  at  the  depth  of 
her  husband's  feeling  over  the  loss  of  Isy,  who 
was  no  relative.  He  could  scarcely  endure  lis- 
tening to  her;  it  seemed  to  him  indelicate  and 
232 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

even  heartless  to  talk  of  burying  one  so  dear 
who  was  but  just  gone  from  their  sight.  It  was 
not  the  custom  of  the  country  to  shorten  the 
time  of  the  dead  above  ground ;  unnecessary 
dispatch  was  a  lack  of  reverence ! 

"  What  for  sic  a  hurry?"  said  Peter.  "  Isna 
there  time  eneuch  to  put  oot  o'  yer  sicht  ane  ye 
hae  lo'ed  sae  weel,  and  luikit  upon  sae  lang  wi' 
by  ord'nar'  content?  Lat  me  be  the  nicht;  the 
morn  'ill  be  time  eneuch.  Rest  my  sowl  wi' 
deith,  and  haud  awa'  wi'  yer  funeral.  '  Sufficient 
untill  the  day,'  ye  ken !  " 

"  Eh,  dear !  I  'm  no  like  you,  Peter !  Whan 
the  sowl 's  gane,  I  tak'  no  content  i'  the  presence 
o'  the  puir  worthless  body,  luikin'  what  it  never 
mair  can  be  !  But  be  it  as  ye  wuU,  my  ain  man ! 
It 's  a  sair  hert  ye  hae  as  weel  as  me  this  nicht, 
and  we  maun  beir  ane  anither's  burdens  !  The 
dautie  may  lie  as  we  hae  laid  her,  the  nicht 
throuw,  and  naethingsaid.  There's  no  need  for 
ony  to  watch  her ;  tyke  nor  baudrins  '11  never 
come  near  her.  I  hae  aye  won'ert  what  for  fowk 
would  sit  up  wi'  the  deid :  yet  I  min'  me  weel 
they  aye  did  i'  the  auld  time." 

In  this  alone  she  showed,  however,  that  the 
girl  they  lamented  was  not  their  own  daughter; 
for  when  the  other  Isy  died,  the  body,  although 
not  so  lovely  to  look  upon  as  this,  was  never  for 
a  moment  left  alone  while  yet  unveiled  from  the 
233 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

eternal  spaces,  as  if  they  feared  she  but  slept, 
and,  waking  to  find  herself  alone,  might  be  terri- 
fied. Then,  as  if  God  had  forgotten  them,  they 
seemed  to  forget  God,  for  they  went  to  bed  with- 
out saying  their  usual  evening-prayers  together. 
I  think,  however,  it  was  only  that  they  fancied 
Isy  gone  beyond  their  prayers,  and  as  they  were 
not  going  to  separate,  they  could,  each  apart, 
yet  not  the  less  together,  pray  as  well  in  bed ; 
and  the  coming  of  her  son  had  been  to  Marion 
like  the  chill  of  a  wandering  iceberg  at  sea. 

In  the  morning  the  farmer  was,  as  usual,  up 
the  first,  and,  going  into  the  death-chamber,  sat 
down  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  there  remembering, 
he  reproached  himself,  that  he  had  forgotten 
"  worship  "  the  night  before,  when  God  himself 
had  just  reminded  them  that  life  and  death  were 
in  his  hands ;  if  they  had  not  consciously  mur- 
mured against  him,  they  had  forgotten  his  lov^e, 
and  had  not  acknowledged  his  care  ! 

And  as  he  sat,  thus  reproaching  himself  as  he 
looked  at  the  white  face,  he  became  aware  of  a 
fact  he  had  not  noted  before,  —  that  upon  the 
lips,  otherwise  plainly  dead,  was  a  little  tinge 
of  colour,  also,  possibly,  a  fainter  —  the  faint- 
est tinge,  of  which  he  could  be  nowise  certain, 
in  the  cheek.  He  knew  it  must  be  a  fancy, 
or  at  best  an  accident  without  significance, — 
for  had  he  not  heard  before  that  such  a  thing 
234 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

sometimes  happened?  Still,  if  his  eyes  were 
but  deceiving  him  with  an  appearance  he  would 
so  gladly  have  hailed,  he  yet  shrank  from  the 
thought  of  hiding  away  the  form  so  long  as 
it  retained  even  such  a  counterfeit  appearance 
of  life.  Possibly  the  widow  of  Nain  might  have 
fancied  such  signs  of  life  in  her  son  ere  the 
Lord  of  life  drew  near  who  was  to  stop  his 
funeral;  and  just  such  the  little  daughter  of 
Jairus  might  have  looked  when  the  wailing 
friends  laughed  him  to  scorn  who  was  about 
to  give  her  back  to  her  parents.  But  now  the 
age  of  miracles  was  long  over,  and  death  was 
death  beyond  remeid.  Their  own  Isy  died, 
and  Jesus  never  raised  her  from  the  dead,  but 
let  them  cover  her  with  the  cold  green  sod. 
Oh,  why  was  God  farther  away  now  than  when 
his  Son  was  on  the  earth?  Did  not  men  need 
him  more  now  than  when  his  Son  was  with 
them?  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  Jesus, 
nearer  to  the  Father,  could  not  be  farther  away 
from  men,  else  could  he  never,  by  being  with 
them,  bring  the  Father  nearer !  And  had  He 
not  brought  all  men  nearer  to  each  other,  both 
the  living  and  the  dead?  Was  not  at  that 
moment  the  soul  of  the  farmer  nearer  the  soul 
of  the  shoemaker  than  ever  before;  for  were 
not  the  two  travelling  upon  lines  converging 
to  one  centre?  —  "that  they  also  may  be  one 
235 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

in  us,  as  thou,  Father,  art  in  me,  and  I  in 
thee  !  "  Peter  Blatherwick  was  not  yet  capable 
of  such  reflections  ;  but  the  soutar  philosophised 
thus,  though  in  humbler  and  more  characteristic 
form  of  speech :  God  is  a  spirit,  and  every- 
where all  the  same  and  always  ;  but  when  the 
Son,  who  is  one  with  the  Father,  came  into  new 
and  perhaps  nearer,  anyhow  different,  relations 
with  space  and  matter,  and  human  life  in  them, 
who  can  say  whether  the  Eternal  himself  was 
not  thereby  drawn  also  into  new  relations  with 
the  finite,  to  us  of  course  unintelligible,  and  so, 
with  his  Son  on  the  earth,  might  not  be  himself 
nearer  to  it  than  ever  before,  —  nearer  even  than 
when  the  Son,  by  the  will  and  power  of  his 
Father,  was  bringing  all  things  into  being? 
If  so,  and  such  new  relation  must  be  eternal? 
But  whether  or  no,  —  and  here  I  must  reproduce 
his  vernacular,  —  we  maunna  forget  that  he  can 
and  dis  come  nearer  to  ony  leevin'  soul  than  he 
could  approach  the  bonniest  lump  o'  leevin'  clay 
that  ever  he  shapit !  That  Son  o'  the  Father 
could  put  on  the  form  o'  livin'  man,  and  come 
oot  and  walk  aboot  amo'  men,  talkin'  to  them 
frae  the  very  hert  o'  the  Father;  and  yet,  it 
seems  to  me,  he  can  come  closer  still  to  ony 
livin'  soul  than  ever  he  was  even  to  that  human 
body  in  the  which  he  manifested  himsel'.  He 
can  come  nearer  to  me,  I  mean  nearer  to  my 
236 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

vera  hert  and  min',  than  he  can  come  to  ony 
ither  kin'  o'  thing  that  ever  he  made.  —  "  Oh,  my 
God !  "  he  broke  out,  "  lat  me  but  ken  thee 
near  me,  nearer  than  near,  one  vvi'  my  hfe  and 
bein',  and  I  seek  nae  mair !  The  hert  o'  me  can 
haud  nae  mair !  I  'm  full  to  the  brim !  I  'm 
complete !  —  Eh,  my  God,  thoo  art,  and  I  am 
wi'  thee,  —  a'  made  oot,  and  shinin'  i'  they 
licht !  " 

The  farmer  could  not  go  very  far  with  his 
friend  in  the  path  of  the  abstruse,  though,  being 
of  childlike  nature,  those  paths  were  open  to 
him  also  ;  no  obstructing  fence  anywhere  crossed 
them ;  and  as  he  grew,  he  would  be  able  to  go 
farther  and  farther,  until  the  heaven  of  thought 
must  at  length  open  itself  up  to  him,  and  he 
with  the  rest  of  the  children  run  shouting 
through  the  gates  of  the  city  into  regions  which 
many  a  doctor  of  blessed  divinity  has  not  yet 
entered. 

But  to  return  to  the  Present.  To  Peter's  eyes 
it  seemed,  I  say,  as  if  there  lingered  in  the  lips 
and  on  the  cheeks  of  the  girl  a  doubtful  tinge 
of  all  but  invisible  colour,  —  of  the  spirit-like  red 
of  life.  While  that  appearance,  or  the  appear- 
ance rather  of  that  appearance,  was  there,  it 
would  be  too  horrible  to  lay  the  form  of  her  in 
the  earth !  And  even  if  it  were  all  a  fancy  of 
his  own,  as  most  likely  it  was,  there  was  not, 
237 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

therefore,  any  haste ;  it  would  be  time  enough 
to  bury  the  form  when  other  signs  rendered  it 
beyond  dispute  that  the  spirit  was  irrevocable  ! 

Instead  of  going  into  the  yard  to  make  prep- 
aration toward  the  approaching  harvest,  he 
sat  on  with  the  dead,  as  if  he  could  not  leave 
her  till  his  wife  came  to  keep  her  company  in 
his  place.  He  brought  a  Bible  from  the  next 
room,  sat  down  again,  and  waited.  His  inten- 
tion was  to  give  his  wife  no  hint,  but  wait  how 
she  saw;  he  would  put  to  her  no  leading  ques- 
tion, but  watch  for  any  start  or  touch  of  surprise 
that  might  show  itself! 

By  and  by  his  wife  appeared,  gazed  a  moment 
on  the  face  of  the  dead,  looked  pitifully  in 
her  husband's  countenance,  and  went  out  again 
wiping  her  eyes. 

"  She  sees  naething !  "  said  Peter  to  himself 
"  I  s'  awa'  to  my  wark  !  Still  I  winna  hae  her  laid 
aside  afore  I  'm  a  wheen  surer  o'  what  she  is, — 
leevin'  sowl  or  deid  clod !  " 

He  rose  and  went  out.  As  he  passed  through 
the  kitchen,  his  wife  followed  him  to  the  door. 

"  Ye  '11  see  and  sen'  a  message  to  the  vricht 
(^carpenter)  the  day?  "  she  whispered. 

"  Ow,  ay,  I  'm  no  likely  to  forget ! "  he  answered  ; 
"  but  there 's  nae  hurry,  seein'  there 's  no  life 
concernt!  " 

"  Na,  nane,  the  mair  's  the  pity,"  she  answered  ; 
238 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

and  Peter  knew,  with  a  glad  relief,  that  his  wife 
was  coming  to  herself. 

Marion  sent  the  cowboy  to  the  Cormacks' 
cottage  to  tell  Eppie  to  come  to  her. 

The  old  woman  came,  heard  what  details  there 
were  to  the  sad  story,  shook  her  head,  and  found 
nothing  to  say.  Together  they  prepared  the  body 
of  Isy  for  its  burial.  Then  the  mind  of  Mrs. 
Blatherwick  was  at  ease,  and  she  waited  a  visit 
from  the  carpenter.  But  the  carpenter  did  not 
come. 

On  the  Thursday  morning  the  soutar  came  to 
inquire  after  his  friends  at  Stonecross,  and  the 
gudewife  gave  him  a  message  to  Willie  Webster, 
the  vricht,  to  hurry  with  the  coffin. 

But  the  soutar,  catching  sight  of  the  farmer  in 
the  yard,  went  and  had  a  talk  with  him ;  and  the 
result  was  that  the  carpenter  had  no  message. 
When  Peter  went  in  to  his  dinner,  he  still  said  to 
his  wife  that  there  was  no  hurry ;  why  should  she 
be  so  anxious  to  heap  earth  over  the  dead?  For 
still  he  saw,  or  fancied  he  saw,  the  same  possible 
colour  on  Isy's  cheek,  —  like  the  faintest  sunset- 
red,  or  what  is  either  glow  or  pallor  as  you  choose 
to  think  it,  in  the  heart  of  the  palest  blush-rose. 
So  the  first  week  of  Isy's  death  passed,  and  still 
she  lay  in  state,  that  is,  ready  for  the  tomb. 

Not  a  few  of  the  neighbours  came  to  see  her, 
and  were  admitted  where  she  lay;  and  some  of 
239 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

them  warned  Marion  that,  when  the  change 
came,  it  would  come  suddenly;  but  such  was  the 
face  of  the  dead  that  Peter  still  would  not  hear 
of  her  being  buried  "  with  that  colour  on  her 
cheek."  And  Marion  had  come  to  see,  or  to 
imagine  with  her  husband  that  she  saw  it ;  and  so 
they  kept  watching  her  in  turn,  and  felt  as  if 
waiting  to  see  whether  the  Lord  were  not  going 
to  work  a  miracle  for  them,  and  was  not  in  the 
meantime  only  trying  how  long  their  hope  and 
patience  would  endure. 

The  report  spread  through  the  neighbourhood, 
and  reached  Tiltbowie,  where  it  pervaded  street 
and  lane:  "The  lass  at  Stanecross,  she's  lyin' 
deid,  and  luikin'  as  muckle  alive  as  ever  she  was." 
From  street  and  lane  the  people  came  crowding 
to  see  the  strange  sight,  and  were  ready  to  over- 
run the  whole  house,  but  met  with  a  reception  by 
no  means  cordial.  The  farmer  set  men  at  every 
door,  and  would  admit  no  one.  Angry  and 
ashamed,  they  all  went  away  except  a  few  of  the 
more  inquisitive,  who  continued  lurking  about 
the  place  in  the  hope  of  hearing  something  to 
carry  home  with  them  and  enlarge  upon. 

As  to  the  minister,  he  insisted  upon  disbe- 
lieving the  whole  thing,  but  could  not  help 
being  made  very  uncomfortable  by  the  report. 
Always  such  a  foe  to  superstition  that  in  his 
own  mind  he  silently  questioned  the  truth  of 
240 


SALTED   WITH  FIRE 

the  record  as  to  miracles  in  general,  to  whom- 
soever attributed,  and  for  whatever  reason,  he 
was  yet  invaded  by  a  fear  which  he  dared  not 
formulate.  Of  course,  whatever,  if  anything, 
was  taking  place,  it  was  no  miracle,  but  the  nat- 
ural effect  of  causes  entirely  natural;  none  the 
less,  however,  did  he  dread  the  rumour.  For  a 
time  he  did  not  dare  again  to  go  near  the  place. 
If  the  girl  was  in  a  trance,  might  she  not  revive 
and  mention  his  name?  or  might  she  not,  even 
in  her  unconsciousness,  say  something  to  reveal 
her  acquaintance  with  him,  and  lead  to  inquiry? 
This  might  be  a  case  of  catalepsy.  Isy  had  al- 
ways been  a  strange  girl.  She  might  come  to 
herself  entirely  —  and  then?  What  if,  indeed, 
she  were  kept  alive  that  she  might  tell  the  truth, 
and  disgrace  him  before  all  the  world?  In  view 
of  the  possibility  of  her  revival,  might  it  not  be 
well  that  he  should  himself  be  present  at  the 
moment  ?  He  might  be  some  check  upon  her, 
or  at  least  in  some  way  influence  what  she  said. 
At  the  least  he  would,  by  what  she  said,  or  by 
what  she  did  not  say,  learn  how  to  be  on  his 
guard.  He  would  go  at  once  to  Stonecross  and 
make  inquiry  after  her.  His  mother,  anyhow, 
would  not  be  sorry  to  see  him.  In  the  mean- 
time Peter  had  been  growing  more  and  more 
expectant,  and  had  nearly  forgotten  all  about 
the  coffin,  when  a  fresh  rumour  arose,  and  came, 


i6 


24T 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

well  substantiated  like  most  rumours,  to  the  ears 
of  William  Webster,  carpenter  and  builder  of 
houses  for  the  dead,  that  the  young  woman  at 
Stonecross  was  indeed  and  unmistakably  gone 
from  this  life;  whereupon  he,  having  long  lost 
patience  over  the  uncertainty  which  had  so  long 
crippled  his  operations,  and  never  questioning 
the  truth  of  the  expected  result,  unwilling  also 
to  be  hurried  in  what  must  next  fall  to  his  part, 
set  at  once  to  his  task,  and  finished  what  he  had 
many  days  before  begun  and  half  ended.  That 
very  night,  indeed,  on  which  the  minister  went 
to  the  farm,  his  man  and  he  carried  the  coffin 
home,  where,  afraid  by  the  gathering  signs  of 
an  imminent  storm,  they  stupidly  set  it  up  be- 
side the  first  door,  and,  going  to  the  other,  told 
the  deaf  Eppie  that  there  it  was.  She  making 
them  no  intelligible  reply,  there  they  left  it,  lean- 
ing up  against  the  wall,  and  went  home,  trusting 
all  else  to  the  men  of  the  place.  There  the  min- 
ister, when  he  came,  saw  it,  and,  entering  with 
condolence  on  his  lips,  walked  through  the  par- 
lour to  the  little  chamber,  where  he  found  his 
mother  seated  beside  Isy,  who  still  lay  where 
and  as  he  had  left  her  on  his  former  visit,  while 
from  the  darkest  corner  came  his  father,  and,  to 
his  astonishment,  greeted  him  more  cheerfully 
than  usual.  James  cast  a  hurried,  perplexed 
look  on  the  face  of  the  unburied  dead,  saw  that 
242 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

it  seemed  nowise  changed,  and  held  a  bewil- 
dered peace. 

"  Isna  this  a  most  amazin'  thing,  and  houpfu' 
as  it's  amazin'?"  said  his  father.  "What  can 
there  be  to  come  oot  o'  't?  Eh,  the  ways  o'  the 
Almichty  are  truly  no  to  be  measured  by  mor- 
tal line !  The  lass  maun  surely  be  meant  for 
marvellous  things,  to  be  dealt  wi'  efter  sic  an 
extraord'nar'  fashion !  Nicht  efter  nicht  has  the 
tane  or  the  tither  o'  us  twa  sitten  here  aside  her, 
lattin'  the  hairst  tak'  its  chance,  and  lea'in'  a'  to 
the  men,  me  sleepin'  and  they  at  their  wark,  and 
here  has  the  bonny  cratur  been  lyin'  as  quaiet 
as  gien  she  had  never  seen  trouble,  for  thirteen 
days,  and  no  change  passed  upon  her,  no  more 
than  on  the  three  holy  children  i'  the  fiery  fur- 
nace !  I  'm  jist  a'  in  a  trimle  to  think  o'  what 's 
to  come  o'  't !  God  only  kens  what  he  means 
to  do ;  we  can  but  sit  still  and  wait  for  his  ap- 
pearance. What  think  ye,  James  ?  When  the 
Lord  was  deid  upo'  the  cross,  they  waitit  but 
twa  nichts,  and  there  he  was  up  afore  them  ! 
Here  we  hae  waitit  —  this  is  the  thirteent  nicht 
—  and  naething  to  pruv  even  that  she's  deid, 
still  less  ony  sign  that  ever  she  '11  speyk  word  to 
us  again  !     What  think  ye  o'  't,  man?  " 

"  I  greatly  doubt,  if  she  ever  returns  to  life, 
that  she  '11  bring  back  her  senses  with  her.  Ye 
min'  the  tale  of  the  lady  —  Lady  Fanshawe,  I 
243 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

believe  they  ca'd  her.  She  cam'  till  hersel'  a' 
richt  i'  the  en',''  said  his  mother. 

"  I  don't  remember  hearing  the  story,"  said 
James. 

"  I  min'  naething  aboot  it,"  said  his  father, 
"  and  can  think  o'  naething  but  the  bonny  lassie 
lyin'  there  afore  me  naither  deid  nor  alive.  I 
jist  won'er,  James,  that  ye  're  no  as  concernt, 
and  as  full  o'  doobt  and  ev^en  dreid  as  I  am 
mysel'." 

"  We  're  in  the  hands  of  the  God  who  created 
life  and  death,"  returned  James,  piously. 

The  father  was  silent. 

"  And  he'll  bring  licht  oot  o'  the  vera  dark  o' 
the  grave !  "  said  the  mother. 

Her  faith,  or  at  least  her  hope,  once  set 
a-going,  went  farther  than  her  husband's,  and 
she  had  a  greater  power  of  waiting.  Her  son 
had  sorely  tried  both  her  patience  and  her  hope, 
and  not  even  yet  had  she  given  up. 

"  Ye  '11  bide  and  share  oor  watch  this  ae  nicht, 
Jeames?"  said  Peter.  "It's  an  eldritch  kin'  o' 
a  thing  to  wauk  up  i'  the  mirk  mids  o'  the  nicht 
wi'  a  deid  corp  aside  ye !  No  'at  even  yet  I  gie 
her  up  for  deid,  but  I  canna  help  feelin'  some 
eerie  like  —  not  to  say  fleyt.  Bide,  man,  and 
see  the  nicht  oot  wi'  's,  and  gie  yer  mither  and 
me  some  hert  o'  grace." 

James  had  no  inclination  to  add  another  to 
244 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

the  party  of  three,  which  a  silent  one  made 
ghastly,  and  began  to  murmur  something  about 
his  housekeeper.  But  his  mother  cut  him  short 
with  the  indignant  remark,  — 

"  Hoot,  what 's  sJie?  —  neither  mother  nor  wife 
nor  sweethert !  She  's  naething  to  you  or  ony 
o'  's !  Lat  her  sit  up  for  ye,  gien  she  likes  to 
tak'  the  trouble.  Lat  her  sit,  I  say,  and  tak' 
never  a  thoucht  aboot  her !  " 

James  had  not  a  word  to  say.  He  must, 
greatly  as  he  shrunk  from  the  ordeal,  encounter 
it  without  show  of  reluctance.  He  dared  not 
even  propose  that  he  should  sit  in  the  kitchen 
and  smoke.  With  better  courage  than  will,  he 
consented  to  share  their  vigil ;  if  she  should 
come  to  herself,  there  might  be  some  advantage 
in  his  doing  so,  —  not  that  in  the  least  he  ex- 
pected, still  less  hoped  for  it:  the  very  idea  was 
frightful  to  him. 

His  mother  went  to  prepare  supper  for  them, 
and  his  father  went  out  to  have  a  glance  at  the 
night.  Their  strange  position  did  not  entirely 
smother  the  anxiety  of  the  husbandman. 

The  moment  he  went  out  he  saw  the  cofifin  up 
against  the  wall.  It  roused  him  to  a  wrath  he 
could  scarce  restrain.  But  he  shut  his  lips  tight, 
and,  in  terror  lest  his  wife  should  see  or  hear, 
took  the  hateful  thing,  awkward  burden  as  it 
was,  in  his  two  arms,  and,  carrying  it  to  the 
245 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

back  of  the  cornyard,  shoved  it  over  the  low 
wall  into  the  dry  ditch  at  the  foot  of  it,  and 
heaped  dirty  straw  from  the  stable  over  it,  vow- 
ing that  Webster  should  not  soon  hear  the  last 
of  it,  neither  have  a  sixpence  for  his  self-imposed 
and  premature  ministration.  Besides,  he  had 
never  lined  the  thing ! 

"  Fain  wud  I  screw  the  reid  held  o*  'im  intill 
that  same  kist,  and  baud  him  there,  short  o' 
smorin' !  "  he  muttered.  "  Faith,  I  could  'maist 
beery  him  ootricht !  "  he  added,  with  a  grim 
smile,  as  he  returned  to  the  house. 

Ere  he  entered  it,  however,  he  walked  a  little 
way  up  the  hill  to  cast  over  the  vault  above  him 
a  farmer's  look  of  inquiry  as  to  the  coming 
night,  and  went  in  shaking  his  head  at  what 
the  clouds  foreboded. 

When  they  had  finished  their  supper,  and 
Eppie  had  taken  away  the  remnants,  the  two 
went  into  the  dead-chamber,  to  hold  their  sad, 
perplexed  lyke-wake.  Eppie,  having  cleaned  up, 
and  rested  the  fire  in  the  kitchen,  came  also  into 
the  parlour,  and  sat  down  just  inside  the  door. 
James,  who  had  lighted  a  candle,  and  taken  his 
place  at  the  table  with  a  book,  bethought  him- 
self, and,  rising,  joined  his  parents. 

Peter  had  said  nothing  about  the  night,  and 
indeed,  in  his  wrath  with  the  carpenter,  had  not 
noted  how  imminent  was  the  storm.  The  air 
246 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

had  grown  very  sultry ;  the  night  had  become, 
as  it  seemed,  unnaturally  dark,  for  there  was  a 
good-sized  moon,  which  great,  black,  changing 
clouds  had  blotted  out.  It  was  plain  that  long 
ere  the  morning  a  terrible  storm  must  break, 
but  as  yet  it  was  not  quite  ripe,  and,  as  with 
other  and  more  dread  evils,  they  could  only  be 
still  and  wait  for  it.  Midnight  was  come  and 
gone  ere  it  arrived,  with  a  forked  and  vibrating 
flash  of  keen,  angry  light.  It  vanished  in  a 
darkness  whose  presence  for  a  moment  the 
eyeballs  felt  almost  like  a  solid  weight.  Then 
all  at  once  it  seemed  torn  and  shattered  into 
sound,  into  heaps  of  bursting,  roaring,  tumult- 
uous billows.  Another  flash  was  followed  by 
yet  another  and  another,  each  with  its  attendant 
volley  of  crashing  avalanches.  At  the  first  flash 
Peter  had  risen  and  gone  to  the  larger  window 
of  the  parlour,  to  discover,  if  he  could,  in  what 
direction  the  storm  was  travelling.  Marion,  in 
the  region  of  whose  nerves  a  thunderstorm  was 
always  reproduced,  feeling  herself  suddenly  un- 
roofed as  it  were,  followed  him  thither,  and  left 
James  alone  with  the  dead.  He  sat,  not  daring 
to  move ;  but  when  the  third  flash  came  it  flick- 
ered and  played  so  long  about  the  dead  face, 
and  made  it  come  so  vividly  out  of  the  dark- 
ness, that  his  gaze  was,  as  it  were,  fascinated  by 
it.  The  same  moment,  while  he  was  almost 
247 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

unconsciously  and  the  more  fixedly  regarding 
it,  all  at  once,  without  a  single  previous  move- 
ment, Isy  sprang  to  her  feet  upon  the  bed. 

A  great  cry  from  the  chamber  came  to  the 
ears  of  the  father  and  mother  in  the  parlour. 
They  hurried  in.  James  lay  motionless  and 
senseless  on  the  floor ;  for  the  strength  of  a 
man's  nerves  is  not  necessarily  in  the  same 
ratio  with  the  hardness  of  his  heart:  the  in- 
rush of  the  overwhelming  fact  had  given  him 
an  unsustainable  shock. 

Isobel  lay  gasping  and  sighing  across  the  bed. 

She  knew  nothing  yet  of  what  had  happened 
to  her,  or  that,  in  coming  to  life,  she  had  terri- 
fied her  faithless  lover  almost  to  death.  She 
scarcely  yet  knew  herself,  and  did  not  know 
that  James  lay  unconscious  on  the  floor  by  the 
side  of  her  bed. 

When  the  mother  entered,  she  saw  nothing, 
only  heard  Isy's  breathing.  But  when  her  hus- 
band entered  with  a  candle,  and  she  saw  her  son, 
she  forgot  Isy,  and  all  her  anxiety  was  about 
James.  She  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  him, 
and,  raising  his  head,  held  it  to  her  bosom, 
lamenting  over  him  as  if  he  were  dead  in  her 
arms.  She  was  even  annoyed  with  the  poor 
girl  who  lay  struggling  back  into  life ;  she  felt 
toward  her  as  if  she  was  behaving  indiscreetly : 
why  should  she,  whose  history  was  what  it  was, 
248 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

be  the  cause  of  such  a  catastrophe  to  her  wor- 
shipful son?  Was  she  worth  one  of  his  little 
fingers?  Let  her  moan  away  there  —  what  did  it 
matter?  She  would  see  to  her  presently,  when 
her  boy  was  better. 

Very  different  was  the  effect  upon  Peter  when 
he  saw  Isy  coming  to  herself  It  was  a  miracle 
indeed  —  nothing  less  !  White  as  was  her  face, 
there  was  in  it  an  unmistakable  look  of  reviving 
life;  when  she  opened  her  eyes  and  saw  her 
master  bending  over  her,  she  greeted  him  with 
a  faint  smile,  closed  her  eyes  again,  and  lay  still. 
James  began  to  show  signs  of  recovery,  and  he 
turned  to  him.  With  the  old  sullen  look  of  his 
boyhood,  he  glanced  up  at  his  mother,  who  was 
overwhelming  him  with  caresses  and  tears. 

"  Let  me  up,"  he  said  querulously,  and  began 
to  wipe  his  face.  "  I  feel  strange.  What  can 
have  made  me  turn  so  sick?" 

"  Isy 's  come  to  life  again !  "  said  his  mother. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  returned,  and  was  silent. 

"  Ye  're  surely  no  sorry  for  that !  "  rejoined 
his  mother,  rising  with  a  weary  air  of  disap- 
pointment. 

"  I  'm  pleased  to  hear  it :  why  should  I  not 
be?  I  suppose  she  gave  me  a  great  start. 
Why,  I  can't  tell."  He  took  care  not  to  say,  "  I 
don't  know."  "But  then  I  never  expected  it, 
as  you  did  !  " 

249 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  Weel,  ye  are  hertless !  "  said  his  father. 
"  Hae  ye  nae  spark  o'  fellow-feelin'  wi'  yer  mither 
whan  the  lass  comes  to  Hfe  she  has  been  murnin' 
for  deid,  vvatchin'  ovver  like  nane  but  herself? 
But  I  doot  she  's  aff  again,  deid  or  in  a  dwaum, 
and  maybe  she  '11  slip  frae  oor  airms  yet !  " 

James  only  turned  his  head  aside  as  he  lay, 
and  murmured  something  inaudible. 

But  Isy  had  only  fainted.  After  some  eager 
ministrations  on  the  part  of  Peter,  she  came  to 
herself  once  more,  and  lay  panting,  her  forehead 
wet  as  with  the  dew  of  death. 

The  farmer  ran  out  to  a  loft  in  the  yard,  and 
calling  the  herd-boy,  a  clever  lad,  told  him  to 
rise  and  ride  for  the  doctor  as  fast  as  the  mare 
could  go. 

"  Tell  him,"  he  said,  "  that  Isy  has  come  to 
life,  but  he  maun  munt  and  ride  like  the  vera 
mischeef,  or  she  '11  be  deid  again  afore  he  wins 
till  her.  Gien  ye  canna  get  the  tae  doctor,  awa' 
wi'  ye  to  the  tither,  and  dinna  ley  him  till  ye  see 
him  i'  the  saiddle  and  startit.  Syne  ye  can  ease 
the  mere  and  come  hame  at  yer  leisur  !  He  '11 
be  here  lang  afore  ye  !  —  I  '11  pey  him  ony  fee 
he  likes,  and  no  compleen  !  " 

The  boy  ran  to  the  stable,  and  when  he  came 
back  on  the  mare,  the  farmer  was  waiting  for 
him  with  the  whisky  bottle  in  his  hand. 

"  Na,  na !  "  he  said,  seeing  the  lad  eye  the 
250 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

bottle,  "  it 's  no  for  you ;  ye  need  a'  the  sma' 
\vit  ye  ever  hed  ;  and  ye  haena  to  rin,  —  ye  hae 
but  to  ride  like  the  deevil !     Hae,  Susy !  " 

He  poured  half  a  tumblerful  into  a  soup-plate, 
and  held  it  out  to  the  mare,  who  did  not  even 
snuff  at  it,  but  licked  it  up  greedily,  and  started 
off  herself  at  a  good  round  pace. 

Peter  carried  the  bottle  into  the  chamber,  and 
between  them  his  wife  and  he  managed  to  make 
Isy  swallow  a  little,  after  which  she  began  to 
recover.  In  the  course  of  an  hour  and  a  half, 
the  doctor  arrived,  full  of  amazed  incredulity. 
He  found  Isy  asleep,  and  James  gone  to  bed, 
unable,  apparently,  to  recover  from  the  shock 
he  had  received. 


251 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

The  next  day,  Isy,  although  very  weak,  was 
greatly  better.  She  was,  however,  too  ill  to  get 
up ;  and  Marion  seemed  now  in  her  element, 
with  two  invalids,  both  dear  to  her,  to  look  after. 
She  hardly  knew  for  which  to  be  the  more 
grateful,  —  for  her  son,  now  given  helpless  into 
her  hands,  and  unable  to  repel  the  love  she 
lavished  upon  him ;  or  for  the  girl  whom  God 
had  taken  from  the  very  throat  of  the  grave. 
Her  heart  seemed  to  bubble  over  with  gladness, 
—  soon  to  be  moderated  when  she  saw  how  ill 
James  proved  to  be.  Nor  was  it  long  before 
she  feared  lest  perhaps  she  should  have  to  part 
with  her  hitherto  unloving  child,  in  exchange 
for  the  devoted  girl  who  never  could  be  her  own. 
If  ever  she  thought  of  the  two  together,  which 
she  could  not  always  help,  she  would  turn  away 
from  the  impossible  idea  with  a  sort  of  meek 
loathing.  How  would  her  James  endure  the 
suggestion  of  her  holding,  even  for  a  moment, 
together  in  the  same  thought,  himself  and  any 
girl  that  was  less  spotless  than  he  ! 
252 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

But  James  was  very  ill,  and  growing  worse ; 
for  what  one  of  our  old  Saxon  poets  calls  the 
Backbite  of  Conscience  had  him  fixed  in  its 
hold,  and  was  worrying  him  at  last.  Whence  it 
came  we  know,  but  how  it  came,  and  how  it 
began  its  saving  torment,  who  can  understand 
but  God  the  maker  of  men?  The  beginnings  of 
conscience,  and  the  beginnings  of  its  work,  are 
both  infinitesimal,  as  are  all  God's  beginnings, 
wrapt  in  the  mystery  of  creation. 

Their  results  only,  not  their  mode  of  opera- 
tion or  the  stages  of  it,  I  can  attempt  to  convey. 
It  was  the  wind  blowing  where  it  listed  that  did 
all  and  explained  nothing.  That  wind  from  the 
timeless  and  spaceless  and  formless  realities  of 
God's  feeling  and  thought  blew  open  the  eyes  of 
this  man's  mind  so  that  he  saw,  and  became 
aware  of  what  he  saw.  It  blew  away  the  gath- 
ered mists  of  his  satisfaction  and  self-conceit; 
it  blew  wide  the  windows  of  his  soul,  that  the 
sweet  odour  of  his  father  and  mother's  thoughts 
concerning  him  might  enter,  and  when  it  en- 
tered, he  knew  it  for  what  it  was ;  it  blew  back 
to  him  his  own  judgments  of  them  and  their 
doings,  and  he  saw  those  judgments  side  by  side 
with  his  new  insights  into  their  thoughts  and 
feelings ;  it  blew  away  the  desert  sands  of  his 
own  moral  dulness,  indifference,  and  dead  selfish- 
ness, that  had  so  long  hidden  beneath  them  the 
253 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

watersprings  of  his  own  heart,  created  by  and 
for  love  and  its  joy;  it  cleared  all  his  con- 
scious existence,  made  him  understand  that  he 
had  never  loved  his  mother  or  his  father,  never 
loved  any  neighbour,  never  loved  God  one  gen- 
uine atom,  never  loved  the  Lord  Christ,  his 
Master,  or  cared  at  all  that  he  had  died  for  him ; 
never  at  any  moment  loved  Isy,  least  of  all  when 
to  himself  he  pleaded,  in  excuse  of  his  behaviour 
toward  her,  that  he  loved  her.  In  a  word,  that 
blowing  wind  which  he  could  not  see  nor  knew 
whence  it  came,  still  less  whither  it  was  going,  — 
that  wind  began  to  blow  together  his  soul  and 
those  of  his  parents ;  the  love  in  his  father  and 
in  his  mother  drew  him ;  the  memories  of  his 
boyhood  and  his  childhood  drew  him ;  the  heart 
of  God  drew  him ;  and  as  he  yielded  to  the 
drawing  and  went  nearer,  they  grew  more  and 
more  lovely  to  him ;  until  at  last,  I  know  not 
how  God  did  it,  or  what  he  did  to  the  soul  of 
James  Blatherwick  to  make  it  different,  but  so 
he  grew  at  length  capable  of  loving,  and  loved, 
—  first  because  he  yielded  to  love  and  could  not 
help  it;  then  loved  with  a  will  because  he  could 
love,  and,  become  conscious  of  the  power,  loved 
the  more,  and  so  went  on  to  love  more  and 
more.  Thus  he  became  what  he  had  to  become 
or  perish. 

But  before  he  could  reach  this,  or  grow  capable 
254 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

of  knowing  and  striving  after  it,  he  had  to  pass 
through  wild  regions  of  torment  and  horror ;  he 
had  to  become  all  but  mad,  and  know  it;  his 
body  and  his  soul  had  to  be  parched  with  fever, 
thirst,  and  hopeless  fear;  he  had  to  fall  asleep, 
and  dream  lovely  dreams  of  coolness  and  peace 
and  courage ;  then  wake  and  know  that  he  had 
all  his  life  been  dead,  and  now  he  lived ;  to  know 
that  love,  newborn,  and  now  first  awake  in  his 
heart,  had  driven  out  of  it  the  gibbering  phan- 
toms ;  now,  now,  it  was  good  to  be,  and  know 
that  others  were  alive  about  him ;  now,  life  was 
possible,  because  life  was  to  love,  and  love  was 
to  live.  The  knowledge  of  this  began  in  him 
then,  and  he  knew  it  for  the  good  and  accept- 
able, the  perfect  and  eternal  will  of  God.  What 
that  love  was,  or  how  it  was,  he  knew  nothing,  — 
only  that  it  was  the  will  and  the  joy  of  the  Father 
and  the  Son,  The  spiritual  vision  grew  in  him, 
—  grew  until  it  was  the  surest  thing  of  all ; 
grew  until,  compared  with  aught  else,  it  was  the 
only  sure  thing. 

And  long  ere  it  came  to  this,  all  the  meanness 
of  his  behaviour  to  Isyhad  become  plain  to  him, 
bringing  with  it  an  overpowering  self-contempt 
and  self-loathing,  —  such  that  he  was  even  driven 
to  the  thought  of  self-destruction,  to  escape  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  himself  the  man  who  had 
been  such  as  to  do  such  things.  "  To  know  my 
255 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

deed,  't  were  best  not  know  myself!  "  But  by 
and  by  he  grew  reconciled  to  the  fact  that  he 
must  live,  for  how  otherwise  could  he  in  any 
degree  make  atonement?  And  with  the  thought 
of  reparation,  and  following  forgiveness  and 
reconcilement,  his  old  love  for  Isy  returned  like 
a  flood,  and  in  far  nobler  kind  than  before,  be- 
coming at  last  a  genuine,  self-forgetting  devotion. 
Until  this  change  arrived,  however,  the  paroxysms 
of  his  remorse  rose  now  and  then  almost  to  mad- 
ness, and  for  long  it  seemed  doubtful  whether 
his  mental  condition  might  not  be  permanently 
tinged  with  insanity ;  during  which  time  he  con- 
ceived a  great  disgust  at  his  office  and  all  its 
requirements ;  sometimes  in  his  wanderings  bit- 
terly blaming  the  parents  who  had  not  interfered 
with  his  choice  of  a  profession  which  had  been 
his  ruin,  and  which  now  he  detested. 

One  day,  having  had  no  return  of  the  delirium 
for  a  good  many  hours,  he  suddenly  called  out 
as  they  stood  by  his  bed,  — 

"  Oh,  mother  !  Oh,  father  !  why  did  you  tempt 
me  to  such  hypocrisy?  Why  did  you  not  bring 
me  up  at  the  plough-tail?  Then  I  should  never 
have  been  exposed  to  the  cursed  snares  of  the 
pulpit !  It  was  that  which  seduced  me,  —  the 
notion  that  I  must  take  the  minister  for  my  pat- 
tern, and  live  up  to  that  idea  before  I  had  any- 
thing real  in  me.  That  was  the  road  royal  to 
256 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

hypocrisy !  Without  that  I  might  have  been  no 
worse  than  other  people  !  Now  I  am  lost !  Now 
I  shall  never  get  to  bare  honesty,  not  to  say  in- 
nocence !     That  is  gone  for  ever !  " 

The  poor  mother  could  only  imagine  that  his 
humility  made  him  accuse  himself  of  hypocrisy 
because  he  had  not  fulfilled  to  the  uttermost  the 
duties  of  his  great  office. 

"  Jamie,  dear,"  she  would  cry,  laying  her  cheek 
to  his,  "  cast  yer  care  upon  Him  that  careth  for 
you.  He  kens  ye  hae  dune  yer  best,  or  if  no 
yer  vera  best  —  for  wha  daur  say  that  ?  —  ye  hae 
dune  what  ye  could  !  " 

"  Na,  na,"  he  answered,  resuming  the  speech 
of  his  boyhood,  —  a  far  better  sign  of  him  than 
his  mother  understood,  —  "  I  ken  ower  muckle, 
and  that  muckle  ower  weel,  to  lay  sic  a  flattering 
unction  to  my  soul !  It 's  jist  as  black  as  the  fell 
mirk !  Ah,  limed  soul,  that,  struggling  to  be 
free,  art  more  engaged  !  " 

"  Hoots,  ye  're  dreamin',  laddie  !  ye  never  was 
engaged  to  onybody,  at  least  that  ever  I  h'ard  tell 
o'.  But  fash  na  ye  aboot  that !  Gien  it  be  ony- 
thing  o'  sic  a  natur  that 's  troublin'  ye,  yer  father 
and  me  we  s'  hae  ye  clear  o'  't  some  gait !  " 

"  Ay,  there  ye  're  at  it  again.  It  was  you  that 
laid  the  bird-lime  !  Ye  aye  tuik  pairt,  mither, 
wi'  the  muckle  deil  that  wad  hae  my  sowl  in  's 
deepest  pit !  " 

17  257 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  The  Lord  kens  his  ain ;  he  '11  see  that  they 
come  throuw  unscaumit !  " 

"  The  Lord  disna  mak'  ony  hypocreet  o'  pur- 
pose, doobtless ;  but  gien  a  man  sin  after  he  has 
ance  come  to  the  knowledge  of  the  trowth,  there 
remaineth  for  him  — ye  ken  the  lave  o'  'tas  weel 
as  I  do  mysel',  mother !  My  only  houp  lies  in  a 
doobt  whether  I  had  ever  come  to  a  knowledge 
o'  the  trowth  —  or  hae  yet !     Maybe  no." 

"  Laddie,  ye  're  no  i'  yer  richt  min'.  It 's  fear- 
some to  hearken  to  ye  !  " 

"  It  '11  be  waur  to  hear  me  roarin'  like  the  rich 
man  i'  the  low  o'  hell !  " 

•'  Peter !  Peter !  "  called  out  Marion,  driven 
almost  to  distraction ;  "  here  's  yer  ain  son,  puir 
fallow,  blasphemin'  like  ane  o'  the  condemned ! 
He  jist  gars  me  creep  !  " 

Receiving  no  answer,  for  her  husband  was  no- 
where near  her  at  the  moment,  she  called  in  her 
despair,  — 

"  Isy !  Isy !  come  and  see  gien  ye  can  dee 
onything  to  quaiet  this  ill  bairn." 

It  was  the  third  day  of  his  fever.  Isy  was 
by  this  time  much  better,  —  able  to  eat  and  go 
about  the  house.  She  sprang  from  her  bed, 
where  at  the  moment  she  lay  resting. 

"  Coming,  mistress  !  "  she  answered  ;  "  coming 
as  fast  as  my  legs  '11  carry  me !  " 

She  had  not  yet  seen  James,  nor  he  her,  since 
258 


SALTED   WITH  FIRE 

her  resurrection,  as  Peter  always  called  her  res- 
toration. 

"  Isy !  Isy !  "  cried  James  the  moment  he 
heard  her  steps,  "  come  and  hand  the  deil  afif 
o'  me  !  " 

He  rose  to  his  elbow  and  looked  eagerly 
toward  the  door. 

She  entered.  James  threw  wide  his  arms,  and 
with  glowing  eyes  took  her  and  pressed  her  to 
his  bosom.  She  made  no  resistance,  for  she 
knew  his  mother  would  think  the  fever  only 
spoke,  and  thus  best  she  might  hold  him  uncom- 
promised,  nor  rouse  in  her  any  suspicion.  He 
broke  into  wild  words  of  love,  repentance,  and 
devotion  ;  but  she  was  determined  he  should  be 
held  accountable  for  nothing  he  might  say. 

"  Never  heed  him  a  hair,  mem :  he  's  clean  afif 
o'  his  heid  !  "  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  looking 
round  to  where  she  sat,  and  making  no  attempt 
to  free  herself  from  his  embrace,  but  treating 
him  like  a  delirious  child.  "  There  's  something 
aboot  me  that  quaiets  him  a  bit !  It 's  the 
brain,  ye  ken,  mem  !  it 's  the  het  brain  !  We 
maunna  contre  him ;  he  maun  hae  his  ain  w'y 
for  a  wee  !  " 

But  such  was  his  behaviour  to  her,  for  he  had 
no  thought  of  concealment,  that  it  was  impos- 
sible for  the  mother  not  to  suspect  at  least  that 
this  was  far  from  the  first  time  they  had  met; 
259 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

and  presently  she  began  to  think  she  must  her- 
self have  seen  Isy  before  ever  she  came  to 
Stonecross.  She  dared  not,  however,  probe  the 
question  before  one  in  the  heat  of  a  growing 
fever;  but  when  in  the  matter,  and,  by  and  by, 
her  husband  came  in,  and  she  found  herself 
compelled,  much  against  her  will,  to  leave  the 
two  together,  she  sent  up  Eppie  to  take  Isy's 
place,  with  the  message  that  she  was  to  go  down 
at  once  to  her  dinner.  Isy  obeyed,  but,  per- 
turbed and  trembling,  dropped  on  the  first  chair 
she  came  to  in  the  kitchen.  The  farmer,  al- 
ready seated  at  the  table,  looked  up,  and,  anx- 
iously regarding  her,  said,  — 

"  Bairn,  ye  're  no  fit  to  be  aboot !  Ye  maun 
caw  canny,  or  ye  '11  be  ower  the  burn  yet  or  ever 
ye  're  safe  upo'  this  side  o'  't !  Preserve  's  a' ! 
are  we  to  lowse  ye  twice  in  ae  month?  " 

"  Jist  answer  me  ae  question,  Isy,  and  I  '11 
speir  nae  mair  —  " 

"  Na,  na,  never  a  question ! "  interposed 
Peter,  "  no  ane  afore  even  the  shaidow  o'  deith 
be  worn  afif  o'  the  hoose  !  —  Draw  ye  up  to  the 
table,  my  bonny  bairn  :  this  isna  a  time  for  cere- 
mony ;  there  's  sma'  room  for  that  ony  day  !  " 

Finding  she  sat  motionless  and  death-like,  he 

got  up,  and,  pouring  out  a  spoonful   of  whisky, 

insisted  on  her  swallowing  it.     She  did  so,  and, 

glad  to  put  herself  under  his  protection,  took 

260 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

the  chair  he  had  placed  for  her  beside  him,  and 
made  a  futile  attempt  to  eat. 

"It's  sma'  won'er  the  puir  thing  has  na 
muckle  appeteet,"  remarked  Mrs,  Blathervvick, 
"  considerin'  the  w'y  yon  ravin'  laddie  up  the 
stair  has  been  carryin'  on  till  her !  " 

"What!  Hoo'sthat?"  interposed  her  hus- 
band, with  a  start. 

"  But  ye  're  no  to  mak'  onything  o'  that,  Isy," 
added  her  mistress  in  conclusion. 

" No  ae  hair,"  returned  Isy.  "I  ken  weel  it 
Stan's  for  naething  but  the  heat  o'  the  burnin' 
brain.  But  I  'm  richt  glaid  the  sichto'  me  did 
seem  to  comfort  him  a  wee,  just  for  a  meenut !  " 

"  Weel,  I  'm  no  sae  sure  !  "  answered  Marion. 
"  But  we  '11  say  nae  mair  anent  it  for  the  noo  ! 
The  guidman  says  no,  and  his  word  's  law  i'  this 
hoose." 

Isy  resumed  her  pretence  of  dining.  Presently 
Eppie  came  down,  and,  going  up  close  to  her 
master,  for  she  was  hard  of  hearing,  said,  — 

"  Here's  my  man,  sir,  come  to  speir  efter  the 
yoong  minister  and  Isy.  Am  I  to  gar  him 
come  in?  " 

"  Ay,  and  gie  him  his  denner,"  answered  the 
farmer. 

The  old  woman  set  a  chair  for  him  by  the 
door,  and  proceeded  to  attend  to  him. 

Silence  again  fell,  and  the  ceremony  of  dining 
261 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

was  resumed.  Peter  was  the  only  one  that 
made  a  reality  of  it  Marion  was  occupied  with 
many  thinkings,  and  a  growing  doubt  and  sore- 
ness with  regard  to  Isy.  She  had  been  good  to 
her  for  a  long  time,  and  what  if,  through  it  all, 
the  girl  had  been  cherishing  plans  of  her  own. 
She  had  consented  not  to  press  her  with  ques- 
tions, and  the  hussy  had  taken  advantage  of  her 
unsuspiciousness.  It  would  be  a  fine  thing  for 
her  to  get  hold  of  the  minister !  but,  please 
God,  that  she  should  not  succeed  in.  It  was 
too  bad  of  her  old  friend,  Mr.  Robertson,  whom 
she  had  known  so  long  and  trusted  so  well,  to 
join  with  Isy  to  deceive  her !  She  began  to 
.distrust  ministers!  No  doubt  they  were  right 
to  venture  much  for  the  rescue  of  a  brand  from 
the  burning;  there  were  limits  that  ought  not 
to  be  passed.  Must  the  sinner  be  favoured  at 
the  expense  of  the  honest  woman?  That  could 
not  be  justified.  It  was  not  right.  She  would 
say  so  in  the  face  of  all  the  angels  in  heaven  ! 
It  was  doing  evil  that  good  might  come.  But 
good  would  not,  never  should  come  of  it ! 

A  cry  of  distress  came  from  the  room  above. 
Isy  started  to  her  feet,  but  Marion  was  up 
almost  before  her. 

"  Sit  doon  this  minute,"  she  commanded. 

Isy  hesitated. 

"  Sit  doon  this  moment,  I  tell  ye ! "  she  re- 
262 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

peated  yet  more  imperiously.  "  Ye  hae  no 
business  there.  I  'm  gaein'  till  him  mysel' !  " 
and  with  the  word  she  left  the  room. 

Peter  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  then  sat 
up,  stared  bewildered,  and  rose  apparently  to 
follow  his  wife. 

"  Oh,  my  baby  !  my  baby  !  "  cried  Isy ;  "  if 
only  I  had  you  to  take  my  part !  God  gave  you 
to  me,  however  ill  I  deserved  you  ;  but  then 
how  could  I  love  you  so?  And  then  the  mis- 
tress thinks  I  never  had  a  baby.  Maybe  noo 
she  '11  say  I  killed  my  bonny  wee  man !  But 
even  for  his  sake  I  never  ance  wished  ye  hadna 
been  born !  And  noo,  whan  he  's  ill,  and  cryin' 
oot  for  me,  they  winna  lat  me  till  'im  !  " 

The  last  words  left  her  lips  in  a  wailing  shriek. 
Then  she  saw  that  her  master  had  re-entered ; 
and,  wiping  her  eyes  hurriedly,  she  turned  to 
him  with  a  pitiful  apologetic  smile,  like  the  sun- 
set of  a  dreary  day. 

"  Dinna  be  sair  vext  wi'  me,  sir.  I  canna 
help  bein'  glaid  that  I  had  him,  though  to  tyne 
him  has  gien  me  a  sair,  an  unco  sair  hert !  " 

She  stopped,  terrified ;  for  what  had  he 
heard  ?  She  could  not  tell  what  she  might  not 
have  said.  But  the  farmer  had  resumed  his 
breakfast,  and  went  on  eating  as  if  she  had  not 
spoken.  But  he  had  heard  well  enough,  and 
was  now  inwardly  digesting  her  words. 
263 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

Isy  sat  still,  saying  to  herself:  "  If  only  he 
loved  me,  I  should  be  content,  and  want  no 
more !  I  would  never  even  want  him  to  say  it. 
I  would  be  so  good  to  him,  and  so  silent,  that  he 
could  not  help  loving  me  a  little  !  " 

I  wonder  whether  she  would  have  been  as 
strong  and  as  hopeful  had  the  knowledge  then 
been  vouchsafed  to  her  how  his  mother  had 
loved  him,  and  looked  in  vain  for  his  love  in 
return.  And  when  Isy  vowed  in  her  heart 
never  to  let  James  know  that  she  had  borne  him 
a  son,  certainly  she  never  saw  that  thus  she 
would  be  withholding  from  him  the  most  potent 
of  injfluences  for  his  repentance  and  restoration 
to  God  and  his  parents.  She  did  not  see  James 
again  that  night;  but  before  she  fell  asleep  at 
last  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  that,  ere  the  same  morning 
was  clear  upon  the  moor,  she  would,  as  the  best, 
yes,  only  thing  left  her  to  do  for  James  Blather- 
wick,  be  far  away  from  Stonecross.  She  would 
go  back  to  Deemouth,  and  beg  for  readmittance 
to  the  paper-mills  she  had  left. 


264 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

She  woke  in  the  first  of  the  grey  dawn.  In 
the  house  was  utter  stillness.  She  rose  and 
dressed  herself  in  soundless  haste.  Mr.  Blather- 
wick,  she  knew,  was  that  night  watching  by  his 
son's  bedside,  who  was  no  better.  It  was  hard 
to  go  and  leave  him  thus,  but  she  had  no 
choice.  She  held  her  breath  and  listened,  but 
all  was  still.  She  opened  her  door  very  softly, 
and  not  a  sound  reached  her  ear  as  she  crept 
down  the  stair,  and  left  the  house.  She  had  not 
to  unlock  or  unbolt  the  door,  for  it  was  never 
fastened.  A  dread  feeling  of  the  old  time  of 
wandering  desolation  came  back  upon  her  as 
she  stepped  across  the  threshold,  but  the  worse 
sense  of  her  now  babyless  lot  soon  banished  its 
seriousness.  None  the  less  was  she  sad  at  leav- 
ing the  place  where  she  had  found  welcome, 
where  peace  and  love  had  encompassed  her  for 
so  long,  where  she  had  learned  so  much,  and 
where  she  left  him,  it  might  be  dying,  whose 
life  was  so  sadly  and  inextricably  bound  up  with 
her  own.  She  feared  the  moor,  dreams  of 
265 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

which  would  yet  often  oppress  brain  and  heart 
when  she  slept,  hardly  vanishing  when  she 
awoke;  but  now  first  crossing  it  in  her  new 
loneliness,  the  memory  came  back  to  her  of  the 
time  when  she  lay  in  that  long  trance ;  partly 
conscious,  but  unable  to  move,  she  knew,  or 
seemed  to  know,  what  was  going  on  about  her, 
and  thought  she  was  dead,  and  waiting  to  be 
buried.  But  she  felt  her  Maker  with  her,  and 
that  he  would  not  leave  her.  She  felt  no  fear, 
and  was  not  aware  of  the  least  struggle  to  come 
awake.  All  at  once  she  found  herself  upon  her 
feet,  aware  that  she  was  still  in  the  region  of 
anxiety.  Her  first  thought  was  not  of  rescue 
from  the  grave,  but  wonder  where  God  was 
gone,  for  her  heart  was  troubled.  She  had  felt 
herself  unaccountable  for  anything;  now  once 
more  she  had  to  think  what  to  do. 

Of  the  roads  that  led  from  the  farm  she  knew 
only  that  by  which  Mr.  Robertson  had  brought 
her  there ;  it  would  lead  her  to  the  village  where 
they  had  left  the  coach  to  walk  to  Stonecross, 
and  there  she  would  find  some  way  of  returning 
to  Deemouth.  She  found  the  way  very  weary, 
for  she  was  feeble  after  her  prolonged  inaction 
and  the  crowd  of  emotions  that  had  succeeded 
her  recovery.  Long  ere  she  reached  the  vil- 
lage, she  seemed  all  but  worn  out.  At  the  only 
house  she  had  come  to  on  the  way,  she  stopped 
266 


SALTED  WITH  FIRE 

and  asked  for  water.  The  woman,  the  only  hu- 
man being  she  had  seen,  for  it  was  still  early 
morning,  and  the  road  always  a  lonely  one,  saw 
that  she  looked  ill,  and  gave  her  milk  instead. 
In  the  strength  of  that  milk  she  reached  the  end 
of  her  first  day's  journey.  For  many  days  she 
had  not  to  take  a  second. 

Isy  had  once  seen  the  soutar  at  the  farm,  and, 
going  about  her  work,  had  listened  to  scraps  of 
his  conversation  with  the  mistress ;  had  been 
greatly  struck  by  some  things  he  said,  and  had 
often  wished  for  a  chance  of  talking  to  him. 
That  morning,  going  along  a  narrow  lane  in  the 
village,  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  cobbler's  ham- 
mer, and,  glancing  through  a  window  close  to 
the  path,  saw  and  at  once  recognised  the  soutar. 
He  looked  up,  and  could  scarce  believe  his  eyes 
when  so  early  in  the  day  he  saw  before  him 
Mistress  Blatherwick's  maid,  concerning  whom 
there  had  been  such  a  talk  and  such  excitement 
for  weeks.  She  looked  ill,  and  he  wondered 
she  could  be  about  so  soon.  She  smiled  to 
him,  and  passed  from  the  window  with  a  re- 
spectful nod.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  over- 
took her  easily,  for  she  was  walking  but  slowly. 

"  I  'm  jist  gaeing  to  drop  wark,  mem,  and 
hae  my  brakfast;  wull  ye  no  come  in  and 
share?  Ye  hae  come  a  gey  bit,  and  ye  luik 
sair  fatiguit !  " 

267 


SALTED  WITH  FIRE 

"Thank  ye  kindly,  sir,"  returned  Isy.  "  I  am 
a  bit  tired.     But  I  won'er  ye  kenned  me." 

"  Weel,  I  canna  jist  say  I  ken  ye  by  the  name 
fowk  ca'  ye ;  and  still  less  div  I  ken  ye  by  the 
name  the  Lord  ca's  ye ;  but  that  maitters  little 
whan  I  ken  that  he  has  a  name  grovvin'  for  ye ; 
or,  raither,  a  name  ye  're  growin'  till !  Eh,  what 
a  day  will  that  be  whan  ilk  habitant  o'  the  holy 
city  'ill  tramp  the  streets  o'  't  weel  kenned  and 
weel  kennin' !  " 

"  Ay,  sir !  I  un'erstan'  ye  weel,  for  I  h'ard 
ye  conversin'  wi'  the  mistress,  that  nicht  ye 
broucht  hame  the  maister's  shune.  And  I  'm 
richt  glaid  to  see  ye  ance  mair !  " 

They  were  already  in  the  house,  for  she  had 
followed  him  in  almost  mechanically;  and  the 
soutar  was  setting  for  her  the  only  chair  there 
was,  when  the  cry  of  a  child  reached  their  ears. 

The  girl  started  to  her  feet.  A  rosy  flush  of 
unexpected  delight  overspread  her  countenance ; 
she  began  to  tremble  from  head  to  foot,  and 
seemed  at  once  on  the  point  of  running  to  the 
cry,  and  of  falling  to  the  ground. 

"Ay,"  exclaimed  the  soutar,  with  one  of  his 
sudden  flashes  of  unquestioning  insight,  "  by 
the  luik  o'  ye,  that  '11  be  the  cry  o'  yer  ain  bairn, 
my  bonny  lass !  Hae  ye  missed  him  for  ony 
len'th  o'  time  past?  Sit  ye  doon,  and  I'll  hae 
him  i'  yer  airms  afore  a  meenut  's  ower !  " 
268 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

She  obeyed  him  and  sat  down,  her  eyes  fixed 
wildly  on  the  door.  He  feared  lest  she  should 
fall  again  into  her  old  trance,  and  made  haste 
for  the  child.  But  when  he  returned  with  him 
in  his  arms,  he  found  her  sitting  bolt  upright, 
with  her  hands  already  apart,  and  held  out  to 
receive  him.  She  still  looked  ready  to  fall,  but 
her  eyes  were  alive  as  he  had  never  seen  eyes 
before. 

"  My  Jamie  !  my  ain  bairn  !  "  she  cried,  seiz- 
ing him  to  her  bosom  with  hands  that  trembled 
and  yet  seemed  to  cling  to  him  desperately,  and 
a  look  almost  of  defiance,  as  if  she  dared  the 
world  to  take  him  from  her  again. 

"  Oh,  my  God !  "  she  cried,  in  an  agony  of 
thankfulness,  "  I  ken  ye  noo  !  I  ken  ye  noo  ! 
Never  mair  wuU  I  doobt  ye,  my  God  and 
Father !  —  Lost  and  found  !  Lost  for  a  wee, 
and  found  again  for  ever !  " 

Then  she  caught  sight  of  Maggie,  who  had 
entered  behind  her  father,  and  now  stood  mo- 
tionless, staring  at  her,  —  with  a  look  of  glad- 
ness indeed,  but  not  all  of  gladness. 

"  I  ken,"  Isy  broke  out,  with  a  trembling,  yet 
eager  apologetic  voice,  "  that  ye  're  grudgin*  me 
ilka  luik  at  him  !  I  ken  't  by  mysel' !  Ye  're 
thinkin'  him  mair  yours  nor  mine  !  And  weel 
ye  may,  for  it 's  you  that 's  been  motherin'  him 
ever  since  I  lost  my  wits  !  It 's  true  I  ran  awa' 
269 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

and  left  him,  but  ever  sin'  syne,  I  hae  soucht 
him  carefully  wi'  tears.  And  ye  maunna  beir 
me  ony  ill  will  —  for  there !  "  she  added,  hold- 
ing out  the  child  to  Maggie,  —  "  and  I  haena 
kissed  him  yet! — no  ance ! — Will  ye  lat  me 
kiss  him  afore  ye  tak'  him  awa'  ?  —  my  ain 
bairnie,  whas  vera  comin'  I  had  prepared  shame 
for  !  Oh,  my  God  !  —  But  he  kens  naething 
aboot  it,  and  winna  ken  for  years  to  come ! 
And  nane  but  his  ain  mammie  maun  brak  the 
dreid  trowth  till  him  !  —  and  by  that  time  he  '11 
lo'e  her  weel  eneuch  to  be  able  to  bide  it !  I 
thank  God  that  I  haena  had  to  shue  the  birds 
and  the  beasts  afif  o'  his  bonny  wee  body.  I 
micht  hae  had  but  for  you,  my  bonny  lass !  — 
and  for  you,  sir !  "  she  added,  turning  to  the 
soutar. 

Maggie  caught  the  child  from  her  offering 
arms,  and  held  his  little  face  for  her  to  kiss; 
and  so  held  him  until  for  the  moment  she  was 
satisfied,  and  he  began  to  whimper  a  little. 
Then  Maggie  sat  down  with  him  in  her  lap,  and 
Isy  stood  absorbed  in  regarding  him,  every  now 
and  then  lifting  up  her  swimming  eyes.  Then 
she  said,  with  a  deep  sigh,  — 

"  And  noo  I  maun  awa',  and  I  dinna  ken  hoo 

I  'm  to  gang !     I  hae  found  him  and  maun  leave 

him,  I  houp  no  for  vera  lang  !     Maybe  ye  winna 

min'  keepin'  him,  say  for  a  week  mair?     He's 

270 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

been  sae  lang  unused  to  a  vagrant  life  that  I 
doobt  it  winna  weel  agree  wi'  him,  and  I  maun 
awa'  back  to  Deemooth,  gicn  I  can  get  onybody 
to  len'  me  a  Hft." 

"  Na,  na ;  that  '11  never  dee,"  returned  Maggie, 
with  a  sob.  "  We  '11  be  glaid  eneuch  to  keep 
him,  —  though  we  hae  nae  richt  against  yer 
wull." 

"  Ye  see  I  hae  nae  place  to  tak'  him  till !  " 
said  Isy,  appealingly. 

"  Gien  ye  dinna  want  him,  gie  him  to  me :  I 
want  him  !  "  said  Maggie. 

"  Want  him  !  "  returned  Isy,  bursting  into 
tears :  "  I  hae  lived  but  upo'  the  bare  houp  o' 
gettin'  him  again !  I  hae  grutten  my  een  sair 
for  the  sicht  o'  'im !  I  hae  wakent  greetin'  ohn 
kenned  for  what !  and  noo  ye  tell  me  I  dinna 
want  him,  'cause  I  hae  nae  spot  but  my  breist 
to  lay  his  heid  upo' !  Eh,  guid  fowk,  keep  him 
till  I  get  a  place  to  tak'  him  till,  and  syne  haudna 
him  a  meenute  frae  me !  " 

All  this  time  the  soutar  had  been  watching 
the  two  girls  with  a  divine  look  in  his  black 
eyes  and  rugged  face  ;   and  now  he  spoke  — 

"Them  that  haps  the  bairn,  are  aye  sib  to 
the  mither,"  he  said.  "  Gang  ben  the  hoose 
wi'  Maggie,  and  lie  doon  on  her  bed,  and  she  '11 
lay  the  bairnie  aside  ye,  and  fess  yer  brakfast 
there  till  ye.  Ye  winna  be  easy  to  sair  o'  'im, 
271 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

haein'  sae  little  for  sae  lang !  Lea'  them  there 
thegither,  Maggie,  my  doo,"  he  went  on  with 
infinite  tenderness,  "  and  come  and  gie  me  a 
han'  as  sune  as  ye  hae  maskit  the  tay,  and 
gotten  a  lof  o'  white  breid.  I  s'  hae  my  parritch 
a  bit  later." 

Maggie  obeyed  at  once,  and  took  Isy  to  the 
other  end  of  the  house,  where  the  soutar  had 
long  ago  given  up  his  bed  to  herself  and  the 
baby. 

When  all  had  their  breakfast,  she  sat  down 
in  her  old  place  beside  her  father,  and  for  a 
long  time  they  worked  together  without  a  word 
spoken. 

•'  I  doobt,  father,"  said  Maggie  at  length,  "  I 
haena  been  attendin'  tae  ye  properly !  I  fear 
the  bairnie  's  been  garrin*  me  forget  ye  !  " 

"  No  a  hair,  dautie !  "  returned  the  soutar. 
"  The  needs  o'  the  little  ane  stude  aye  far  afore 
mine;  he  had  to  be  seen  till  first.  And  noo 
that  we  hae  the  mither,  we  '11  get  on  faumous ! 
Isna  she  a  fine  cratur,  and  richt  mitherlike  wi' 
the  bairn?  That  was  a'  I  was  anxious  aboot. 
We  '11  get  her  story  fae  her  or  lang,  and  syne 
we  '11  ken  a  heap  better  hoo  to  help  her.  I'  the 
meantime,  I  dinna  fear  but,  atween  you  and  me, 
and  the  Michty  at  the  back  o'  's,  we  s'  get  breid 
eneuch  for  the  quaternion  o'  's !  " 

He  laughed  at  the  odd  word  as  it  fell  from 
272 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

his  mouth  and  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles ;  and 
Maggie  laughed  too,  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

Before  long  Maggie  knew  that  she  had  never 
been  so  happy  in  her  life.  Isy  told  them  as 
much  as  she  could  without  breaking  her  resolve, 
never  mentioning  the  name  of  the  minister  ex- 
cept when  it  was  natural  and  unavoidable.  She 
wrote  to  Mr.  Robertson,  telling  him  where  she 
was,  and  that  she  had  found  her  baby.  He  came 
out  with  his  wife  to  see  her,  and  so  began  a 
friendship  between  the  soutar  and  him  which 
Mr.  Robertson  always  declared  one  of  the  most 
fortunate  things  that  had  ever  befallen  him. 

"That  soutar  body,"  he  would  say,  "kens 
mair  aboot  God  and  his  kingdom,  the  heart  o'  't 
and  the  w'ys  o'  't,  than  ony  man  I  ever  h'ard 
tell  o'  — and  that  heumble  !  — jist  like  the  Son 
o'  God  himsel' !  " 

Before  many  days  passed,  however,  a  great 
anxiety  laid  hold  of  the  little  household.  Wee 
Jamie  was  taken  so  ill  that  the  doctor  had  to  be 
summoned.  For  some  days  the  child  was  very 
ill,  and  his  appealing  looks  were  pitiful  to  see. 
When  first  he  ceased  to  run  about,  and  wanted 
to  be  nursed,  no  one  could  please  him  but  the 
soutar  himself,  who,  at  once  discarding  his  work 
at  the  petulant  cry  of  the  waking  child,  gave 
himself  up  to  his  service  until  he  again  slept. 
He  grew  so  ill,  however,  as  to  want  defter  hand- 
i8  273 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

ling,  and  then  no  one  would  do  but  Maggie,  to 
whom  he  was  most  accustomed.  Isy  could  get 
no  share  in  the  labour  of  love  except  when  he 
was  asleep,  and,  as  soon  as  he  woke,  had  to  bear 
the  pain  of  hearing  him  cry  for  Maggie,  and 
seeing  him  from  his  mother's  lap  stretch  out  his 
hands  to  one  he  knew  better.  But  Maggie  was 
very  careful  over  the  poor  mother,  and  always, 
the  minute  he  was  securely  asleep,  would  lay 
him  softly  upon  her  lap.  One  of  the  happiest 
moments  in  her  life  was  the  first  time  he  con- 
sented —  his  recovery  then  a  little  advanced  — 
to  leave  her  arms  for  those  of  his  mother.  And 
soon  he  was  so  much  better  that  Isy,  as  well  as 
Maggie,  was  able  to  lend  a  helping  hand  and 
needle  to  the  lining  of  some  of  the  more  delicate 
of  the  soutar's  shoes. 


274 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 


CHAPTER   XXV 

There  was,  of  course,  great  concern,  and  even 
alarm,  at  Stonecross  because  of  the  disappear- 
ance of  Isy.  But  James  continued  so  ill  that 
his  parents  were  unable  to  spend  much  thought 
upon  any  one  else.  At  last,  however,  the  fever 
left  him,  and  he  began  to  recover.  But  although 
he  lay  still  and  silent,  seeming  to  take  no  in- 
terest in  anything,  and  remembered  nothing 
he  had  said,  or  even  that  he  had  seen  Isy,  his 
wakened  conscience  was  still  at  work  in  him, 
and  had  more  to  do  with  his  condition  than  any 
weakness  from  the  prolonged  fever.  At  length 
both  his  mother  and  father  were  convinced  that 
he  had  something  on  his  mind  that  interfered 
with  his  recovery,  and  his  mother  was  positive 
that  it  had  to  do  with  "that  deceitful  creature, 
Isy."  To  know  that  she  was  safe  gave  Marion 
little  satisfaction,  so  long  as  the  place  of  her 
refuge  was  within  a  short  distance  of  the  close 
to  the  manse.  Having  once  learned  where  the 
girl  was,  she  had  never  asked  another  question 
about  her.  But  her  husband,  having  heard  the 
words  that  fell  from  Isy  when  she  thought  her- 
275 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

self  alone,  was  intently  though  quietly  waiting 
for  what  would  follow. 

"  I  'm  doobtin'  sair,  Peter,"  began  Marion 
one  morning  after  a  long  talk  with  the  cottar's 
wife,  who  had  been  telling  her  of  Isy's  domesti- 
cation with  the  soutar,  "  I  'm  sair  misdoobtin' 
whether  that  hizzie  hadna  mair  to  do  wi' 
Jamie's  mischance  nor  we  hae  been  jaloosin' ! 
It  seems  to  me  he 's  been  lang  broodin'  ower 
something  we  ken  noucht  aboot." 

"  That  would  be  nae  ferlie,  woman !  Whan 
was  it  ever  we  kent  onything  gaein'  on  i'  that 
mysterious  laddie?  Na,  but  his  had  need  be  a 
guid  conscience,  for  did  ever  onybody  ken 
eneuch  aboot  it  or  him  to  say  richt  or  wrang 
till  him  ?  But  gien  ye  hae  ae  thoucht  he  's  ever 
wranged  that  lassie,  I  s'  hae  the  trowth  o'  't,  gien 
it  cost  him  a  greitin' !  He  '11  never  come  to 
health  o'  body  or  min'  till  he 's  confest,  and  God 
has  forgi'en  him.     He  maun  confess  !  " 

"  Hoot,  Peter,  dinna  be  sae  suspicious  o'  yer 
ain.  It's  no  like  ye  to  be  sae  maisterfu'  and 
owerbeirin'.  I  would  na  lat  an  ill  thoucht  o' 
puir  Jeemie  inside  this  auld  heid  o'  mine!  It's 
the  lassie,  I  '11  tak'  my  aith,  it's  that  Isy's  at  the 
bothom  o'  't !  " 

"Ye 're  some  ready  wi'  yer  aith,  Mirran,  to 
what  ye  ken  naething  aboot !  I  say  again,  gien 
he  's  dune  ony  wrang  to  that  bonny  cratur,  — 
276 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

and  it  wouldna  tak'  ower  mucklc  proof  to  con- 
vince me  o'  the  same,  —  he  shall  tak'  his  stan', 
minister  or  no  minister,  upo'  the  stule  o' 
repentance !  " 

"  Daur  ye  to  spcyk  that  gait  aboot  yer  ain 
son  —  ay,  and  mine  the  mair  gien  ye  disown 
him,  Peter  Blathervvick  —  and  the  Lord's  ain 
ordeent  minister  forbye !  "  cried  Marion,  driven 
almost  to  her  wits'  end,  but  more  by  the  per- 
sistent haunting  of  her  own  suspicions,  which 
she  could  not  repress,  than  by  the  terror  of  her 
husband's  threat,  "  Besides,  dinna  ye  see,"  she 
added  cunningly,  "  that  that  would  be  to  affront 
the  lass  as  weel?  He  's  no'  the  first  to  fa'  to  the 
wiles  o'  a  designin'  wuman ;  and  would  it  be  for 
his  ain  father  to  expose  him  to  public  contempt? 
Your  pairt  suld  be  to  cover  up  his  sin,  gien  it 
were  a  multitude  and  no  ae  solitary  bit  faut !  " 

"  Daur  yc  speyk  o'  a  thing  like  that  as  a  bit 
faut?  Is  leein'  an'  hypocrisy  a  bit  faut?  I  alloo 
the  sin  itsel'  mayna  be  jist  damnable,  but  to  what 
bouk  mayna  it  come  wi'  ither  and  waur  sins  upo' 
the  backo'  't.  Wi'  leein',  and  haudin'  aff  o'  him- 
sel',  a  man  may  grow  a  cratur  no  fit  to  be  taen 
up  wi'  the  taings !  Eh  me,  but  my  pride  i' 
the  laddie  !  It  'ill  be  sma'  pride  for  me  gien 
this  fearsome  thing  be  true !  " 

"And    wha    daur    say    it's   true?"    rejoined 
Marion,  almost  fiercely. 
277 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

*'  Nane  but  himsel' ;  and  gien  he  dinna  con- 
fess, the  rod  laid  upon  him  'ill  be  the  rod  o'  iron, 
that  braks  a  man  like  a  muckle  crock.  I  maun 
tak*  Jamie  throuw  han* !  " 

"  Nog  jist  tak'  ye  care,  Peter,  that  ye  dinna 
quench  the  smokin'  flax." 

"  I  'm  mair  likely  to  get  the  bruised  reed  intill 
my  nakit  loof !  "  returned  Peter.  "  But  I  s'  say 
naething  till  he  's  a  wee  better,  for  we  maunna 
drive  him  to  despair  !  Eh,  gien  he  would  only 
repent !  What  is  there  I  wouldna  du  to  clear 
him  frae  ony  wrang  to  her !  I  wad  dee  wi' 
thanksgivin' !  " 

"  Weel  I  kenna  that  we're  jist  called  upon  sae 
far  as  that !  "  said  Marion.  "  A  lass  is  aye  able 
to  luik  efter  hersel' !  " 

"  I  wud  !  I  wud  !  —  God  hae  mercy  upo'  the 
twa  o'  them  !  " 

After  that  they  were  silent. 

In  the  afternoon  James  was  a  good  deal  bet- 
ter ;  and  when  his  father  went  in  to  see  him,  his 
first  words  were,  — 

"  I  doobt,  father,  I  'm  no  likely  to  preach  ony 
mair ;  I  've  come  to  see  'at  I  never  was  fit  for  the 
wark,  neither  had  ony  call  till  't." 

"  It  may  be  sae,  Jeemie,"  answered  his  father ; 
"  but  we  '11  haud  awa'  frae  conclusions  till  ye  're 
better,  and  able  to  jeedge  correctly,  wi'oot  bias 
o'  ony  thrawing  distemper." 
278 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  O  father,"  James  went  on,  and  to  his  de- 
light Peter  saw,  for  the  first  time  since  he  was 
the  merest  child,  tears  running  down  his  cheeks, 
now  thin  and  wan,  —  "  O  father,  I  hae  been  a 
terrible  hypocreet !  But  my  ecn  hae  come  open 
at  last.     I  see  mysel'  as  I  am." 

"  Weel,  there  's  God  hard  by,  to  tak'  ye  by  the 
han'  like  Enoch !  Tell  me,"  Peter  went  on, 
"  hae  ye  onything  upo'  yer  min',  laddie,  'at  ye 
would  like  to  confess  and  be  eased  o'  ?  There  's 
nae  papistry  in  confessing  to  yer  ain  auld 
father !  " 

James  lay  still  for  a  few  moments;  then  he 
said,  almost  inaudibly,  — 

"  I  think  I  could  tell  my  mother  better  nor 
you,  father." 

"  Weel,  it  '11  be  a'  ane  whilk  o'  's  ye  tell.  The 
forgiein'  and  the  forgettin'  '11  be  ae  deed  —  by  the 
twa  o'  's  at  ance !  I  s'  gang  and  cry  doon  the 
stair  to  yer  mither  to  come  up  and  hear  ye."  For 
Peter  knew  by  experience  that  good  motions 
must  be  taken  advantage  of  in  their  first  ripe- 
ness. "We  maunna  try  the  speerit  wi'  ony 
delays !  "  he  added,  and  going  to  the  head  of 
the  stair  called  aloud  to  his  wife.  Then  re- 
turning to  the  bedside,  he  resumed  his  seat, 
and  said,  "  I  '11  jist  bide  a  minute  till  she  comes." 

He  was  loath  to  let  in  any  risk  between  his 
going  and  her  coming,  for  he  knew  how  quickly 
2  79 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

minds  may  change;  but  the  moment  she  ap- 
peared, he  left  the  room,  gently  closing  the  door 
behind  him. 

Then  the  trembhng,  convicted  soul  plucked 
up  what  courage  his  stubborn  heart  was  capable 
of,  and  began. 

"  Mother,  there  was  a  lass  I  cam'  to  ken  in 
Edinburgh,  when  I  was  a  divinity  student  there, 
and  —  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  I  ken  a'  aboot  it !  "  interrupted  the 
mother,  eager  to  spare  him;  " — an  ill-faured, 
designing  limmer,  'at  micht  ha'  kent  better  nor 
come  ower  a  dacent  woman's  son  that  gait ! 
Sic  like  as  she  wad  deceive  the  very  elec'  ! " 

*'  Na,  na,  mother,  she  was  nane  o'  that  sort! 
She  was  bonny  and  guid  and  pleasant  to  the 
hert  as  to  the  sicht,  and  would  have  saved  me 
gien  I  had  been  true  till  her !  She  was  ane  o' 
the  Lord's  makin'  as  he  has  made  but  feow !  " 

"What  for  didna  she  haud  frae  ye  till  ye 
had  merried  her  than?" 

"  Mother,  in  that  word  ye  hae  slandert  yersel' ! 
I  '11  no  say  a  ward  mair." 

"  I  'm  sure  neither  yer  father  nor  mysel'  would 
hae  stude  i'  yer  gait,"  said  Marion,  retreating 
from  the  false  position  she  had  taken. 

She  did  not  know  how  bitter  would  have  been 
her  opposition ;  she  had  set  her  mind  on  a  dis- 
tinguished match  for  her  Jamie. 
280 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  God  knows  how  I  wish  I  had  had  patience ! 
Syne  I  micht  hae  steppit  oot  o'  the  dirt  o'  my 
hypocrisy,  i'stead  o'  gaein'  ower  the  heid  intill  't. 
I  was  aye  a  hypocrite,  but  she  would  maybe  hae 
fun'  me  oot,  and  shawed  me  to  mysel'." 

He  did  not  know  the  probability  that,  if  he 
had  not  fallen,  he  would  have  but  sunk  the 
deeper  in  the  worst  bog  of  all,  self-satisfaction, 
and  would  none  the  less  have  played  her  false, 
and  left  her  to  break  her  heart. 

If  any  reader  of  this  tale  should  argue  it  bet- 
ter then  to  do  wrong  and  repent,  than  to  resist 
the  devil,  I  warn  him  that  in  such  case  he  will 
not  repent  until  the  sorrows  of  death  and  the 
pains  of  hell  itself  lay  hold  upon  him.  An 
overtaking  fault  may  be  beaten  with  few  stripes, 
but  a  wilful  wrong  shall  be  beaten  with  many 
stripes.  The  doer  of  the  latter  must  share,  not 
with  Judas,  for  he  did  repent,  but  with  those 
who  have  taken  from  themselves  the  power  of 
repentance. 

"Was  there  no  mark  left  o'  her  disgrace?" 
asked  his  mother.  "  Wasna  there  a  bairn  to 
mak'  it  manifest?" 

"  Nane  I  ever  heard  tell  o'." 

"  In  that  case  she  's  no  muckle  the  waur,  and 

ye  needna  gang  lamentin' ;   she  '11  no  be  the  ane 

to  tell,  and  ye  maunna,  for  her  sake.     Sae  tak' 

ye  corpfort   ower   what 's    gane   and   dune  wi', 

281 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

and  canna  come  back,  and  maunna  happen 
again.  Eh,  but  it 's  a  God's  mercy  there  was 
nae  bairn." 

Thus  had  his  mother  herself  become  an  evil 
counsellor,  and  cried  Peace  !  peace  !  when  there 
was  no  peace,  tempting  her  own  son  to  be  a 
devil.  The  one  thing  that  now  stood  up  for  the 
truth  in  his  miserable  heart  was  his  reviving  and 
growing  love  for  Isy.  It  had  seemed  smothered 
in  selfishness,  but  was  alive  and  operative,  God 
knows  how,  —  perhaps  through  feverish,  inco- 
herent dreams. 

He  had  expected  his  mother  to  aid  his  repent- 
ance, and  uphold  his  walk  in  the  way  of  right- 
eousness, even  should  it  be  that  of  social  disgrace. 
He  knew  well  that  reparation  and  repentance 
must  go  hand  in  hand  where  the  All-wise  was 
judge,  and  foolish  Society  was  not  allowed  one 
despicable  word  to  bring  honour  out  of  the 
most  carefully  hidden  shame.  He  had  been 
the  cowering  slave  of  a  false  reputation,  but  his 
illness  had  roused  him,  set  repentance  before 
him,  brought  confession  within  sight,  and  purity 
within  prayer. 

"  I  maun  gang  till  her  as  soon  as  ever  I  'm 
up,"  he  cried.     "  Whaur  is  she,  mother?  " 

"  Upo'  nae  accoont  see  her,  Jamie,  It  would 
be  but  to  fa'  again  intill  her  snare,"  answered  his 
mother,  with  decision  in  her  look  and  tone. 
282 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

"  We  're  to  abstain  frae  a'  appearance  o'  evil  — 
as  ye  ken  better  nor  I  can  tell  ye." 

"  But  Isy  's  no  an  appearance  o'  evil, 
mother !  " 

"  Ye  say  weel  there,  I  confess,  Na,  she  's  no 
an  appearance ;  she 's  the  vera  thing.  Hand 
frae  her,  as  ye  would  frae  the  ill  ane  himsel'." 

"  Did  she  never  lat  on  what  there  had  been 
atween  's?  " 

"  Na,  never.  She  kenned  weel  what  would 
come  o'  that." 

"What,  mother?" 

"  The  ootside  o'  the  door." 

"  Think  ye  she  ever  tauld  onybody?" 

"  Mony  ane,  I  doobtna." 

"  Weel,  I  dinna  believe  't.  She  's  heeld  her 
tongue,  and  that  weel." 

**  Hoo  ken  ye  that?  What  for  said  she  never 
ae  word  aboot  ye  till  yer  ain  mither?" 

"  'Cause  she  was  set  on  haudin'  her  tongue. 
Was  she  to  bring  an  ower  true  tale  o'  me  to  the 
vera  hoose  I  was  born  in?  As  lang  as  I  haud 
my  tongue,  she  '11  never  wag  hers." 

"  Weel,  I  alloo  that 's  deein'  as  a  wuman 
should  —  whan  the  faut 's  a'  her  ain." 

"And  the  faut  bein'  a'  mine,  mother,  she 
wouldna  tell  what  would  disgrace  me." 

"  She  micht  hae  kenned  the  secret  would  be 
safe  wi'  me." 

283 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  I  micht  hae  said  the  same  but  for  the  w*y  I 
h'ard  ye  speyk  o'  her  this  vera  minute.  Whaur 
is  Isy,  mother?  " 

"  'Deed,  she 's  made  a  munelicht  flittin' 
o'  't" 

"  I  telled  ye  she  would  never  tell  upo'  me.  I 
fear  me  noo  ye  hae  driven  her  to  tell  a'.  Did 
ye  pay  her  her  wages  afore  she  gaed  ?  " 

"  She  gae  me  no  time.  But  she  winna  tell 
noo,  for  wha  would  tak'  her  in  ?  " 

"  Eh,  mother,  but  ye  are  hard-hertit !  " 

"  I  ken  a  harder,  Jamie." 

"  That 's  me,  and  ye  're  richt,  mother.  But, 
eh,  gien  ye  wad  hae  me  lo'e  ye  frae  this  min- 
ute to  the  end  o'  my  days,  be  fair  to  Isy ;  /  hae 
been  a  damned  scoon'rel  till  her." 

"Jamie,  Jamie,  ye 're  provokin'  the  Lord  to 
anger,  —  sweirin'  like  that  in  his  vera  face,  and 
you  a  minister  !  " 

"  I  provokit  him  a  heap  waur  whan  I  left 
Isy  to  dree  her  shame,  St.  Peter  cursed  awfu' 
gran'  when  he  said  to  Simon  the  magician, 
'  Gang  to  hell  wi'  yer  siller  !  '  " 

"  She  's  tellt  the  soutar,  onygait,  or  he  wadna 
hae  ta'en  her  in.  It  '11  be  a*  ower  the  toon  lang 
or  this." 

"And  hoo  will  ye  meet  the  trowth,  mother?" 

"  We  maun  tell  yer  father,  and  get  him  to  con- 
trive wi'  the  soutar  to  haud  the  thing  quaiet. 
284 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

We    maun  jist  stop  her   mou'    wi'  a  bunch  o' 
banknotes." 

"Ye  would  mak'  it  'maist  impossible  for  her  to 
forgi'e  me  ony  langer?  " 

"  And  wha  's  she  to  speak  o'  forgivin'  ?  " 
But  here  the  door  opened,  and  Peter  entered. 
He  went  up  to  his  wife,  and  stood  over  her  like 
an  angel   of  vengeance.      His   very   lips   were 
white. 

"  Efter  thirty  years  o'  merried  life,  noo  first  to 
ken  the  wife  o'  my  bosom  for  a  messenger  o' 
Sawtan  !  "  he  panted.  "  Gang  oot  o'  my  sicht, 
wuman !  " 

She  fell  on  her  knees  before  him,  and  held  up 
her  two  hands. 

"  Think  o'  Jamie,  Peter  !  "  she  pleaded.  "  It 's 
a'  for  him,  only  for  him  !  I  wad  tyne  my  sowl 
for  Jamie  !  " 

"Ay,  and  his  as  weel !  Tyne  what's  yer  ain 
to  tyne,  wuman  —  and  that 's  no  your  sowl,  nor 
yet  Jamie's !  He  's  no  yours  or  mine  to  save 
or  to  destroy !  Wad  ye  sen'  him  straucht  awa' 
to  hell  for  the  sake  o'  a  guid  name  —  a  lee  !  a 
hypocrisy  !  Oot  upo'  ye  for  a  Christian  mither  ! 
—  Jamie,  I  'm  awa'  to  the  toon,  upo'  my  twa  feet, 
for  the  mere 's  cripple :  the  vera  deil  's  i'  the 
hoose  and  the  stable  and  a',  it  would  seem ! 
I  'm  awa'  to  fess  Isy  hame  !  And,  Jamie,  ye  '11 
jist  tell  her  afore  me  and  yer  mither,  that  as 
285 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

soon  's  ye  're  able  to  crawl  to  the  kirk  wi'  her, 
ye  '11  marry  her  afore  the  warl,  and  tak'  her  hame 
to  the  manse  wi'  ye !  " 

"  Hoot,  Peter !  Wad  ye  disgrace  him  afore  a' 
the  beggars  in  Tiltbowie?" 

"  Ay,  and  afore  God,  that  kens  a'thing  or  ony- 
body  tell  him  !  My  ban's  and  hert  sail  be  clear 
o'  this  abomination  !  " 

"  Merry  a  wuman  'at  was  to  be  ta'en  wi'  a  wat 
finger?  —  a  maiden  that  never  said  na?  —  a  lass 
that 's  nae  maiden,  nor  ever  will  be?" 

"  And  wha  's  to  blame  for  that?  " 

"  Hersel'." 

"  Jamie  !  gang  awa'  wi'  ye  !  " 

"  Oh,  father,  father,"  cried  James,  "  forgi'e  my 
mither  afore  ye  gang,  or  my  hert  'ill  brak.  It 's 
the  awfu'est  thing  o'  ony  to  see  you  twa  striven 
wi'  ane  anither  !  " 

"  She  's  no  sorry,  no  ae  bit  sorry  !  "  said  Peter. 

"  I  am,  I  am,  Peter !  "  cried  Marion,  breaking 
down  utterly.  "  Do  what  ye  wull,  and  I  '11  do 
the  same  —  only  let  the  thing  be  dune  quaietly, 
'ithoot  din  or  proclamation.  What  for  sud 
a'body  ken  a'thing !  W' ha  has  a  richt  to  see 
intill  ither  fowk's  herts  and  lives?  The  warl 
could  ill  gang  on  gien  that  was  the  gait  o'  't." 

"  Father,"  said  James,  "  I  thank  God  that  noo 
ye  ken  a' !  Eh,  sic  a  weight  as  it  tak's  afif  o'  me  ! 
I  '11  be  hale  and  weel  noo  in  ae  day.  I  think  I  '11 
286 


SALTED  WITH   FIRE 

gang  wi'  ye  to  Isy  mysel'.  But  I  'm  a  wee  sorry 
ye  cam'  in  jist  that  minute.  I  wuss  ye  had  harkit 
a  wee  langer.  For  I  wasna  gi'en  in  to  my  mither ; 
I  was  but  luikin'  to  see  hoo  to  say  oot  what  was 
in  me,  and  no  vex  her  waur  than  couldna  be 
helpit.  BeHeve  me,  father,  gien  ye  can  ;  though 
I  doobt  ye  winna  be  able  !  " 

"  I  believe  ye,  my  bairn ;  and  I  thank  God  I 
hae  that  muckle  pooer  o'  belief  left  in  me !  I 
confess  I  was  in  ower  great  a  hurry,  and  am  sure 
ye  war  takin'  the  richt  gait  wi'  yer  puir  mither. 
Ye  see  she  lo'ed  ye  sae  weel  that  she  could  think 
o'  nae  thing  or  body  but  yersel'.  That 's  the  w'y 
o'  mithers,  Jamie,  gien  ye  only  kenned  it !  She 
was  nigh  sinnin'  an  awfu'  sin  for  your  sake,  man  ! 
That's  what  comes  o'  lovin'  the  praise  o'  men, 
Mirran.  Easy  it  passes  intill  the  fear  o'  men,  and 
disregaird  o'  the  Holy. — I  s'  awa'  doon  to  the 
soutar,  and  tell  him  the  cheenge  that 's  come 
ower  us  a' :   he  '11  no  be  a  hair  surprised  !  " 

"  I  'm  ready,  father  —  or  will  be  in  ae  minute  !  " 

"  Na,  na;  ye 're  no  fit !  I  would  hae  to  be 
takin'  ye  upo'  my  back  afore  we  war  at  the  fut 
o'  the  brae.  Bide  ye  at  hame,  and  keep  yer 
mither  company." 

"Ay,  bide, Jamie,  and  I  winna  come  near  ye," 
sobbed  his  mother. 

"  Onything  to  please  ye,  mother,  —  but  I'm 
fitter  nor  my  father  thinks." 
287 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

So  Peter  went,  leaving  mother  and  son  silent 
together. 

At  last  the  mother  spoke. 

"  It 's  the  shame  o'  't,  Jamie  !  "  she  said. 

"  The  shame  was  i'  the  thing  itsel',  mother,  and 
in  hidin'  frae  the  shame,"  he  answered.  "  Noo, 
I  hae  but  the  dregs  to  drink,  and  that  I  maun 
bide  wi'  patience,  for  I  hae  weel  deserved  it. 
But,  eh,  my  bonnie  Isy,  she  maun  hae  sufifert 
sair !  " 

"  Her  mither  couldna  hae  broucht  her  up  richt ! 
The  first  o'  the  faut  lay  in  the  upbringin' !  " 

"  There  's  anither  wha's  upbringin'  wasna  to 
blame,  but  was  a'  it  oucht  to  be !  " 

"  It  wasna !  I  see  it  plain  the  noo  !  I  was 
aye  ower  feart  o'  garrin'  ye  hate  me.  Oh,  Isy, 
Isy !  I  hae  dune  ye  wrang !  I  ken  ye  never 
laid  yersel'  oot  to  snare  him  !  " 

"  Thank  ye,  mother.  It  was,  really  and  truly, 
a'  my  wyte  !  And  noo  my  life  sail  gang  to  mak' 
up  till  her !  " 

"  And  I  maun  see  to  the  manse !  "  said  his 
mother.  "  And  first  in  order  o'  a',  that  Jinse  o* 
yours  '11  hae  to  gang." 

"  As  ye  like,  mother.  But  for  the  manse,  I 
maun  clear  oot  o'  that !  I  speak  nae  mair  frae 
that  poopit !  I  hae  hypocreesit  in  't  ower  lang  ! 
The  thoucht  o'  't  scunners  me !  "' 

"  Speykna  like  that  o'  the  poopit,  Jamie, 
288 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

vvhaur  sae  mony  holy  men  hae  stude  up  and 
spoken  frae  't  the  word  o'  God !  It  frichts  me 
to  hear  ye  !  Yc  '11  be  a  burnin'  and  shinin*  licht 
i'  that  poopit  for  mony  a  lang  day  efter  we  're 
deid  and  hame  !  " 

"  The  mair  holy  men  that  hae  there  witnessed, 
the  less  may  ony  livin'  lee  stan'  there  braggin' 
and  blazin*  i'  the  face  o'  God  and  man  !  It 's 
shame  o'  mysel'  that  gars  me  hate  the  place, 
mother !  Ance  and  no  more  wull  I  stan'  there, 
makin'  o'  't  my  stool  o'  repentance ;  and  syne 
doon  the  steps  and  awa',  like  Adam  frae  the 
gairden !  " 

"  And  what's  to  come  o'  Eve?  Are  ye  gaein', 
like  him,  to  say,  *  The  wuman  thou  gavest  me  — 
it 's  a'  her  wyte'  ?  " 

"  I  '11  tak'  a'  the  wyte." 

"  But  hoo  can  ye  gien  up  there  ye  stan'  and 
confess  ?  Fowk  '11  aye  gie  her  a  full  share  at  the 
least !  Ye  maun  hae  some  care  o'  the  lass  — 
yer  wife  —  efter  a'.  And  what  are  ye  to  turn 
till,  seein'  ye  hae  put  yer  haun  to  the  pleuch 
and  turned  back?" 

"To  the  pleuch  again,  mother.  Frae  the  kirk 
door  I  '11  come  hame  like  the  prodigal  to  my 
father's  hoose,  and  say  till  him,  *  Set  me  to  the 
pleuch,  father.  See  gien  I  canna  be  something 
like  a  son  to  ye,   after  a' ! '" 

So  wrought  in  him  that  mighty  power,  mys- 
19  289 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

terious  in  its  origin,  as  marvellous  in  its  result, 
which  had  been  at  work  in  him  all  the  time  he 
lay  whelmed  under  feverish  phantasms.  The 
result  was  no  phantasm.  His  repentance  was 
true;  it  was  hfe  from  the  dead.  God  and  the 
man  had  met.  As  to  Jiow  God  turned  the  man's 
heart  we  can  only  say,  "Thou,  God,  knowest." 
To  understand  it  we  should  have  to  go  down 
below  the  foundations  themselves,  underneath 
creation,  and  there  watch  God  send  out  from 
himself,  man,  the  spirit,  distinguished  yet  never 
divided  from  him,  for  ever  dependent  upon  and 
growing  in  him,  never  complete  because  his 
origin,  his  very  life,  is  infinite ;  never  outside  of 
God  because  in  him  only  he  lives  and  moves 
and  grows,  and  has  his  being.  Brothers,  let  us 
not  linger  even  to  ask  him  questions,  but  turn  at 
once  to  him  this  being  that  says  /  and  me,  and 
make  haste  to  obey  him,  —  so  to  become  all  we 
are  capable  of  being,  so  to  learn  all  we  are  capa- 
ble of  knowing.  Only  the  pure  in  heart  shall 
see  God;  and  they  who  see  him  know  more 
than  the  wise  and  prudent  can  ever  see  until 
they  also  become  pure  in  heart. 

Something  like  this  was  the  meditation  of  the 
soutar,  as  he  saw  the  farmer  stride  away  into  the 
dusk  of  the  gathering  twilight,  going  home  with 
glad  heart  to  his  wife  and  son. 

He  had  told  the  soutar  that  the  sickness  of 
290 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

his  son  had  brought  to  light  that  a  sin  of  his 
youth  and  its  concealment  had  for  a  long  time 
troubled  him,  and  now  he  was  resolved  to  make 
all  the  reparation  he  could. 

"  Mr.  Robertson,"  he  told  him,  "  broucht  the 
lass  to  oor  hoose,  never  mentionin'  Jamie,  for  he 
didna  ken  they  war  onything  to  ane  anither ;  and 
for  her,  she  never  said  ae  word  aboot  him  to 
Mirran  or  me." 

The  soutar  went  to  the  door  and  called  Isy. 
She  came,  and  stood  humbly  before  her  old 
master,  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

"Weel,  Isy,"  said  he,  kindly,  "ye  gied 's  a 
clever  slip  the  ither  morning  and  a  gey  fricht 
forbye  !  What  possessed  ye,  lass,  to  dae  sic  a 
thing?  " 

She  stood  distressed,  and  made  no  answer. 

"  Hoot,  lassie,  tell  me,"  insisted  Peter,  "  I 
haena  been  an  ill  maister  to  ye,  have  I  ?  " 

"  Sir,  ye  hae  been  mair  nor  guid  till  me.  But 
I  canna  —  that  is,  I  maunna  —  or  raither,  I'm 
determined  no'  to  explain  the  thing." 

"  Thoucht  ye  my  wife  was  feared  the  minister 
micht  fa'  in  love  wi'  ye?  " 

"  Weel,  sir,  there  micht  hae  been  something 
like  that  intill  't !  But  I  wantit  sair  to  win  at 
my  bairn  again ;  for  i'  that  trance  I  lay  intill  sae 
lang,  I  saw  or  h'ard  something  I  took  for  an  inti- 
mation that  he  was  alive,  and  no  that  far  awa'. 
291 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

And  wad  ye  believe  't,  sir,  i'  this  vera  hoose  I 
fand  him,  and  here  I  hae  him,  and  I  'm  jist  as 
happy  the  noo  as  I  was  miserable  afore !  Is  't 
ill  o'  me  'at  I  canna  be  sorry  ony  mair?" 

"And  noo,"  said  Mr.  Blatherwick,  "  ye '11  be 
able  to  tell 's  wha  's  the  father  o'  'im  !  " 

"  Na,  I  canna  dee  that,  sir;  it's  eneuch  that  I 
hae  disgracet  inyscV  !  Ye  wadna  hae  me  dis- 
grace anither  as  weel !  What  guid  would  that 
be?" 

"  It  would  help  ye  beir  the  disgrace  better." 

"  No  a  hair  better,  sir ;  he  couldna  stan'  the 
disgrace  half  sae  weel 's  me  my  lane.  I  reckon 
the  man  the  weaker  vessel,  sir ;  the  woman  has 
her  bairn  to  fend  for,  and  that  tak's  her  thouchts 
ofif  o'  the  shame  !  " 

"You  dinna  tell  me  he  gies  ye  noucht  to 
mainteen  the  crature  upo'?" 

"  I  tell  ye  naething,  sir.  He  never  even  kenned 
there  was  a  bairn  !  " 

"  Hoot,  toot !  ye  canna  be  sae  semple  as  that 
comes  till !     Did  ye  never  tell  him?  " 

"  'Deed,  no  ;  I  was  ower  sair  ashamit !  Ye  see 
it  was  a'  my  vvyte,  and  it  was  naebody's  busi- 
ness !  My  auntie  said  gien  I  wouldna  tell  I 
micht  put  the  door  atween  's ;  and  I  took  her  at 
her  word,  for  I  kenned  she  couldna  keep  a  se- 
cret, and  I  wasna  gaein'  to  hae  his  name  mixed 
up  wi'  a  lass  like  mysel' !  And,  sir,  ye  maunna 
292 


SALTED   WITH  FIRE 

try  to  gar  me  tell,  for  I  hae  no  richt,  and  surely 
ye  haena  the  hert !  " 

"  I  dinna  blame  ye,  Isy !  but  there  's  jist  ae 
thing  I  'm  determined  upo',  and  that  is  that  the 
rascal  sail  merry  ye  !  " 

Isy's  face  flushed ;  she  was  taken  too  much  at 
unawares  to  hide  her  pleasure  at  such  a  word 
from  his  mouth.  But  presently  the  flush  faded, 
and  Mr.  Blatherwick  saw  that  she  was  fighting 
with  herself.  Then  the  mere  shadow  of  a  pawky 
smile  flitted  across  her  face  as  she  answered,  — 
"  Surely  ye  wouldna  merry  me  upon  a  rascal, 
sir !  Ill  as  I  hae  behaved  till  ye,  I  hae  hardly 
deservit  that  at  yer  han' !  " 

"  That's  what  he  '11  hae  to  do,  though,  —  jist 
merry  ye  aff  han' !     I 's  gar  him." 

"  I  winna  hae  him  garred  !  It 's  me  that  has 
the  richt  ower  him,  and  no  anither,  man  or 
wuman,  and  he  sanna  be  garred  !  What  would 
ye  hae  me,  thinkin'  I  would  tak'  a  man  'at  was 
garred  !  Na,  na;  there's  be  nae  garrin' !  And 
ye  canna  gar  Jiim  merry  me  gien  /  winna  hae 
him  !     The  days  are  by  for  that !  " 

"  Weel,  my  bonny  leddy,"  said  Peter,  "  gien  I 
had  a  prince  to  my  son,  providit  he  was  worth 
yer  takin',  I  would  sae  to  ye,  *  Hae  !  '  " 

"  And  I  would  say  to  you,  sir,  '  No,  —  gien  he 
bena  willin',''  answered  Isy,  and  ran  from  the 
room. 

293 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  Weel,  what  think  ye  o'  the  lass,  Mr.  Blather- 
wick?"  said  the  soutar,  with  a  twinkle  in 
his  eye. 

"  I  think  jist  what  I  thoucht  afore,"  answered 
Peter;  "  she  's  ane  amo'  a  million  !  " 

"  I'm  no  that  sure  aboot  the  proportion  !  "  re- 
turned MacLear.  "  I  doobt  ye  micht  come  upo' 
twa  afore  ye  wan  throw  the  million  !  A  million  's 
a  heap  o'  women !  " 

"  All  I  care  to  say  is,  that  gien  Jeemie  binna 
ready  to  leav'  father  and  mother  and  kirk  and 
steeple,  and  cleave  to  that  wuman  and  her  only, 
he  's  no  a  mere  gomeril,  but  jist  a  meeserable, 
wickit  fule !  and  I  s'  never  speyk  word  till  him 
again,  wi'  my  wull,  gien  I  live  to  the  age  o'  auld 
Methuselah !  " 

"  Tak'  tent  what  ye  say,  or  mint  at  sayin'  to 
persuad'  him :  Isy  'ill  be  upon  ye !  "  said  the 
soutar,  laughing.  "  But  hearken  to  me,  Mr. 
Blatherwick,  and  sayna  a  word  to  the  minister 
aboot  the  bairnie." 

"  Na,  na;  it  '11  be  best  to  lat  him  fin'  't  oot  for 
himsel'.  And  noo  I  maun  be  gaein',  for  I  hae 
my  wallet  fu*." 

He  strode  to  the  door,  holding  his  head  high, 
and,  with  never  a  word  more,  went  out.  The 
soutar  closed  the  door  and  returned  to  his  work, 
saying  aloud  as  he  went,  "  Lord,  lat  me  ever  and 
aye  see  thy  face,  and  desire  noucht  mair,  excep' 
294 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

that   the   haill   warl,    O    Lord,    may   behold   it 
likewise." 

Peter  Blatherwick  went  home  joyous  at  heart. 
His  son  was  his  son,  and  no  villain  ! — only  a 
poor  creature,  as  is  every  man  until  he  turns  to 
the  Lord,  away  from  ambition  and  care  for  the 
judgment  of  men.  He  rejoiced  also  that  the 
girl  he  had  befriended  would  be  a  strength  to 
his  son ;  that  she  whom  his  wife  would  have 
rejected  had  proved  herself  noble.  And  he 
praised  the  Father  of  men,  that  the  very  wander- 
ings of  those  he  loved  had  brought  about  their 
repentance  and  uplifting. 

"  Here  I  am  ! "  said  the  farmer,  as  he  entered. 
"  I  hae  seen  the  lassie  ance  mair,  and  she 's 
better  and  bonnier  than  ever !  " 

"  Ow,  ay;  ye 're  jist  like  a'  the  men  I  ever 
kenned  !  "  said  Marion,  smiling;  "  easy  ta'en  wi' 
the  skin-side !  " 

"  Doobtless ;  the  Makker  has  ta'en  a  heap  o' 
pains  wi'  the  skin  !  Ony  gait  yon  lassie  's  ane 
amang  ten  thoosan  !  Jeemie  here  suld  be  on 
his  knees  till  her  this  vera  moment,  —  no  sitting 
there  glowerin'  as  gien  his  een  were  two  balls, 
—  fired  afif  but  never  won  oot  o'  the  barrels  !  " 

"  Hoot !  wad  ye  hae  him  gang  on  his  knees 
to  ony  but  the  Ane?  " 

"Aye  wad  I  —  to  ony  ane  that's  nearer  His 
lik'ness  nor  Jeemie  himsel'  —  and  that  ane  's  oor 
29s 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

Isy!  —  I  wouldna  won'er,  Jamie,  gien  ye  war 
fit  for  a  drive  the  morn  !  In  that  case,  I  '11  caw 
yc  doon  to  the  toon  to  say  yer  say  to  Isy." 

James  did  not  sleep  much  that  night,  and 
nevertheless  was  greatly  better  the  next  day,  — 
indeed  almost  well ;  and  before  noon  they  were 
at  the  soutar's  door.  He  opened  it  himself,  and 
took  the  minister  straight  to  the  ben-end  of  the 
house,  where  Isy  sat  alone.  She  rose,  and  with 
downcast  eyes  went  to  meet  him. 

"  Isy,"  he  faltered,  "  can  ye  forgi'e  me?  and 
will  ye  merry  me  as  soon  as  ever  we  can  be 
cried  ?  I  'm  as  ashamed  o'  mysel'  as  even  ye 
would  hae  me  !  " 

"Ye  haena  sae  muckle  to  be  ashamet  o'  as 
mysel',  sir :  it  was  a'  my  ain  wyte  !  " 

"  And  syne  no  to  haud  my  face  till 't !  I  'm 
that  ashamet  o'  mysel'  I  canna  luik  ye  i'  the 
face !  " 

"  Ye  didna  ken  whaur  I  was.  I  ran  awa'  that 
naebody  micht  ken." 

"  What  necessity  was  there  for  onybody  to 
ken?     I  'm  sure  ye  never  tellt !  " 

Isy  went  to  the  door  and  called  Maggie. 
James   stared    bewildered. 

"This  tellt,"  she  said,  re-entering  with  the 
child,  and  laying  him  in  James's  arms. 

He  gasped  with  astonishment,  almost  con- 
sternation. 

296 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  Is  this  mine?  "  he  stammered. 

"  Yours  and  mine,  sir,"  she  replied.  "  Wasna 
God  a  heap  better  till  me  than  I  deserved  ?  Sic 
a  bonny  bairn  !  no  a  mark,  no  a  spot  upon  him 
frae  heid  to  fut  to  tell  hoo  he  cam',  or  that  he 
ouchtna  to  be  here  !  —  Gie  the  bonny  wee  man 
a  kiss,  Mr.  Blatherwick.  Haud  him  close  to  ye, 
sir,  and  he'll  tak'  the  pain  oot  o'  yer  hert: 
aften  has  he  ta'en  't  oot  o'  mine  !  He  's  yer  ain 
son,  sir,  and  cam'  to  me  wi'  the  Lord's  forgive- 
ness lang  or  I  was  able  to  beg  for  't.  Eh,  but 
we  maun  mak'  up  till  him  for  the  wrang  we  did 
him  afore  he  was  born  —  gien  that  be  possible  ! 
But  he  '11  be  like  his  great  Father,  and  forgi'e  us 
baith !  " 

When  Maggie  had  given  the  child  to  his 
mother,  she  returned  to  her  father,  and  sat 
beside  him,  crying  softly.  He  turned  on  his 
leather-bottomed  stool,  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Canna  ye  rejoice  wi'  them  that  rejoice,  whan 
ye  hae  nane  to  greit  wi',  Maggie,  my  doo?"  he 
said.  "  Ye  haena  lost  ane,  and  ye  hae  gained 
twa !  Haudna  the  glaidness  back,  that 's  sae 
fain  to  come  to  the  licht,  even  in  your  grudgin' 
hert,  Maggie !  God  himsel'  's  glaid,  and  the 
Shepperd  's  glaid,  and  the  angels  are  a'  makin' 
sic  a  flut-flutter  wi'  their  muckle  wings,  I  can 
'maist  see  naething  for  them  !  " 

Maggie  rose,  and  stood  a  moment  wiping  her 
297 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

eyes.  The  same  moment  the  door  opened,  and 
James  entered  with  the  Httle  one  in  his  arms. 
He  laid  him  with  a  smile  in  Maggie's. 

"  Thank  you,  sir !  "  said  the  girl  humbly,  and 
clasped  the  child  to  her  bosom ;  nor,  after  that, 
was  ever  a  cloud  of  jealousy  to  be  seen  on  her 
face.  I  will  not  say  she  never  longed  or  wept 
after  the  child,  whom  she  still  regarded  as  her 
very  own  even  when  he  was  gone  away  with  his 
father  and  mother;  she  mourned  for  him  like  a 
mother  from  whom  death  has  taken  her  first- 
born ;  neither  did  she  see  much  difference  to 
her  between  the  two  forms  of  loss,  for  she  knew 
that  neither  life  nor  death  could  destroy  the 
relation  that  already  and  for  ever  existed  be- 
tween them.  She  could  not  be  her  father's 
daughter  and  not  understand  that;  so,  like  a 
bereaved  mother,  she  only  gave  herself  the 
more  to  her  father. 

I  will  not  dwell  on  the  delight  of  James  and 
Isobel,  thus  restored  to  each  other,  the  one  from 
a  sea  of  sadness,  the  other  from  a  gulf  of  perdi- 
tion. Our  sins  and  our  iniquities  shall  be  no 
more  remembered  against  us  for  ever,  when  we 
take  refuge  with  the  Father  of  Jesus  and  of  us. 
Nothing  we  have  done  can  ever  separate  us 
from  him,  —  nothing  can,  except  our  abiding 
in  the  darkness  and  refusing  to  come  to  the 
light. 

298 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

Before  James  left  the  house,  the  soutar  took 
him  aside,  and  said,  — 

"  Daur  I  offer  ye  a  word  o'  advice,  sir?" 

"  'Deed,  that  ye  may,"  answered  the  young 
man,  with  humiHty ;  "  and  I  dinna  see  hoc  I  can 
miss  doin'  as  ye  tell  me ;  for  you  and  my  father 
and  Isy  atween  ye  hae  jist  saved  my  vera  life !  " 

"  Weel,  what  I  would  beg  o'  ye  is,  that  ye 
tak'  no  step  concernin'  Isy  afore  ye  see  Maister 
Robertson  and  tell  him  the  haill  affair." 

"  I  'm  vera  willin',"  answered  James,  "  gien  Isy 
hersel'  be  content." 

"  Ye  may  be  vera  certain,  sir,  she  '11  be  nae- 
thing  but  pleased :  she  has  a  gran'  opinion,  and 
weel  she  may,  o'  Maister  Robertson.  Ye  see, 
sir,  I  want  ye  to  put  yersel's  i'  the  ban's  o'  a 
man  that  kens  ye  baith,  and  the  hauf  o'  yer 
story  a'ready ;  ane  wha  '11  judge  ye  truly  and 
mercifully,  and  no  condemn  ye  afifhan'.  He  '11 
be  the  man  to  tell  ye  what  ye  oucht  to  dee 
neist." 

"  I  will  —  and  thank  you,  Mr.  MacLear.  But 
ae  thing  I  houp,  —  that  you  nor  he  will  ever  try 
to  persuad'  me  to  gang  on  preachin'.  Ae  thing 
I  'm  set  upon,  and  that  is  to  deliver  my  sowl  frae 
hypocrisy,  and  gang  saftly  the  lave  o'  my  days ! 
Happy  man  wad  I  no  be,  had  I  been  set  at  the 
first  to  ploo  and  reap  and  gether  intill  the  barn, 
instead  o'  creepin'  intill  a  boat  to  fish  for  men 
299 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

wi'  naething  but  a  foul  and  tangled  net !  I  'm 
affrontit  and  disgustit  at  mysel' !  Eh,  the  pre- 
sumption o'  the  thing  !  But  I  have  been  weel 
and  richteously  punished !  The  Father  drew 
his  han'  oot  o'  mine,  and  loot  me  try  to  gang 
my  lane,  and  doon  I  cam',  for  I  was  fit  only  to 
fa' ;  naething  less  would  hae  broucht  me  to 
mysel'  —  and  that  took  a  lang  time  !  I  hae  a 
great  houp  that  Mr.  Robertson  will  see  the  thing 
as  I  dae  mysel' !  — Wull  I  write  and  ask  him  oot 
to  Stanecross  to  advise  wi'  my  father  aboot  Isy? 
That  would  bring  him  !  There  never  was  man 
readier  to  help! — But  it's  surely  my  part  to 
gang  to  him  and  mak'  my  confession,  and  tak' 
his  judgment !  Only  I  maun  gang  and  tell  Isy 
first !  " 

He  found  her  not  only  willing,  but  eager  that 
Mr.  Robertson  should  know  everything. 

"  But  be  sure,"  she  said,  "  you  let  him  know 
too  that  you  come  of  yourself,  and  that  I  never 
asked  you." 

But  Peter  said  he  must  himself  go  with  him, 
for  he  was  but  weakly  yet,  —  and  the  very  next 
day,  before  anything  should  transpire. 

The  news  which  father  and  son  carried  to  the 
Robertsons  filled  them  with  pleasure ;  and  if 
their  reception  of  James  made  him  feel  the  re- 
pentant prodigal  he  was,  it  was  by  its  heartiness, 
and  their  jubilation  over  Isy.  The  next  Sun- 
300 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

day  Mr.  Robertson  preached  in  James's  pulpit, 
and  published  the  banns  of  marriage  between 
James  Blatherwick  and  Isobel  Rose,  returning 
the  two  following  Sundays   for  the  same  pur- 
pose, and  on  the  next  Monday  marrying  them 
at  Stonecross,  —  when  also  the    little  one  was 
baptised,  by  the  name  of  Peter,  in  his  father's 
arms,  —  amid    much    gladness,    not    quite    un- 
mingled    with    shame.      The    soutar    and    his 
Maggie  were  the  only  friends   present  besides 
the  Robertsons.     Before  the  breaking  up,  Peter 
put  the  big  Bible  in  the  hands  of  the  soutar, 
who,  at  the  desire  of  the  company,   led   their 
prayers,  when   this   was   very   nearly   what   he 
said :   "  O  God,  to  whom  we  belang,  hert   and 
soul,  body  and  blude  and  banes,  hoo  great  art 
thou,  and  hoo  close  to  us,  to  haud  sic  a  grand 
and  fair,  sic  a  just  and  true,  ownership  ower  us ! 
VVe  bless  thee  hertily;    and  rejoicin'  for  what 
we    are,  still    mair   for   what   thou    art   thysel ! 
Tak'  to  thy  hert,  and  haud  them  there,   these 
thy  twa  repentant   sinners,    and    thy   ain    little 
ane    and    theirs,  wha's    innocent   as    thoo    hast 
made  him.     Gie  them  sic  grace  to  bring  him  up 
that  he  be  nane  the  waur  for  the  wrang  they  did 
him  afore  he  was  born ;   and  lat  the  knowledge 
o'  his  parents'  faut  haud  him  safe  frae  onything 
sic  like !   and  may  they  baith  be  the  better  for 
their  fa',  and  live  a  heap  the  mair  to  the  glory 
301 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

o'  their  Father  by  cause  o'  that  sHp !  And 
gien  ever  the  minister  should  again  preach  thy 
word,  may  it  be  wi'  the  better  comprehension 
and  the  mair  fervour;  and  to  that  end  gie  him 
to  understan'  the  height  and  depth  and  breadth 
and  len'th  o'  thy  forgivin'  love.  Thy  name  be 
gloryfeed.     Amen !  " 

"  Na,  na !  I  '11  never  preach  again !  "  whis- 
pered James  to  the  soutar,  as  they  rose  from 
their  knees. 

"  I  winna  be  a'thegither  sure  o'  that !  "  re- 
turned the  soutar.  "  Doobtless  ye  '11  dee  as  the 
Spirit  shaws  ye  !  " 

James  made  no  answer,  and  neither  spoke 
again  that  night. 

The  next  morning  James  sent  to  the  clerk  of 
the  synod  his  resignation  of  his  parish  and  office, 
setting  plainly  forth  under  what  necessity  he 
did  so. 

No  sooner  had  Marion,  repentant  under  her 
husband's  terrible  rebuke,  set  herself  to  resist 
her  rampant  pride  than  the  indwelling  goodness 
arose  in  her  with  an  overwhelming  rush,  and 
she  was  herself  again,  —  her  old  and  lovely  self 
Little  Peter,  with  his  beauty  and  his  winsome 
ways,  melted  and  scattered  the  last  lingering 
rack  of  the  evil  fog  of  her  ambition  for  her  son. 
Twenty  times  a  morning  would  she  drop  her 
work  to  catch  up  and  caress  her  grandchild,  and 
302 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

overwhelm  him  with  endearments.  And  over 
the  return  of  his  mother  —  her  second  Isy,  now 
her  daughter  indeed  —  she  was  jubilant. 

From  the  first  publication  of  the  banns,  she 
had  been  busy  cleaning  and  setting  to  rights  the 
parlour,  which  she  intended  making  over  en- 
tirely to  Isy  and  James;  but  the  moment  Isy 
discovered  her  intent,  she  protested  obstinately; 
it  should  not,  could  not,  must  not  be !  The 
very  morning  after  the  wedding  she  was  down 
in  the  kitchen,  and  had  put  the  water  on  the 
fire  for  the  porridge  before  her  husband  was 
awake.  The  water  was  already  boiling  and  the 
table  laid  for  breakfast  before  her  mother  was 
down,  or  her  father  come  in  from  his  last  prepa- 
rations for  the  harvest. 

*'  I  ken  weel,"  said  Isy  to  Marion,  "  that  I 
hae  nae  richt  to  contre  ye ;  but  ye  ken  ye  war 
glaid  eneuch  o'  my  help  whan  first  I  cam'  to  be 
yer  servan'-lass :  what  for  shouldna  things  be 
jist  the  same  noo?  I  ken  a'  the  Av'ys  o'  the 
place,  —  divna  I,  noo?  —  and  they'll  lea'  me 
plenty  o'  time  to  tak'  the  bairnie  oot,  and  play 
wi'  him  as  muckle  as  ever  he  wad  hae !  Ye 
maun  jist  lat  me  step  again,  mother,  intill  my  ain 
auld  place !  Gien  onybody  comes  in,  it  winna 
tak'  me  a  minute  to  mak'  mysel'  tidy  as  becomes 
the  minister's  wife.  Only  that's  to  be  a'  ower 
noo,  he  says,  and  there  '11  be  no  need." 
303 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

With  that  she  broke  into  a  little  song,  and 
went  on  with  her  work. 

At  breakfast  James  made  request  to  his  father 
that  he  might  be  allowed  to  make  of  a  certain 
little-used  loft  a  room  for  Isy  and  himself,  so  as 
not  to  overpeople  the  house.  He  had  always 
been  fond  of  carpentering  before  he  took  him- 
self to  theology,  and  would  now  be  glad  to  turn 
it  to  use !  His  father  making  no  objection,  he 
began  at  once.  But  his  project  was  interrupted 
by  the  arrival  of  an  exceptionally  plentiful 
harvest. 

The  very  day  the  cutting  began,  James  ap- 
peared among  the  ripe  oats  with  the  other 
scythe-men,  and  did  his  best  to  keep  up  with 
them.  When  his  father  came,  however,  he  in- 
terfered, and  compelled  him  to  take  it  easier,  as 
unfit  by  habit  and  recent  illness  to  emulate  the 
others.  What  delighted  his  father  even  more 
than  his  good-will  was  the  way  he  talked  with 
the  men  and  women  in  the  field.  Every  show 
of  superiority  had  vanished  from  his  bearing 
and  speech,  and  he  was  simply  himself,  behaving 
like  the  others,  only  with  greater  courtesy; 
ready  to  share  with  them  whatever  he  had 
learned  that  he  thought  might  interest  them, 
and  thus  letting  his  light  shine,  and  showing  he 
thought  them  as  fit  as  himself  to  receive  it. 

When  the  hour  for  the  noonday  meal  arrived, 
304 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

Isy  appeared  with  her  mother-in-law  and  old 
Eppic,  bringing  the  "  minister,"  as  they  still 
would  call  him,  his  share  of  the  meal  in  one 
hand  and  leading  little  Peter  with  the  other,  to 
play  with  him  while  the  labourers  rested.  For 
a  while  the  whole  field  was  enlivened  with  their 
merriment,  after  which  the  child  was  laid  to 
rest  with  his  bottle  under  the  shadow  of  an  over- 
arching stook,  and  went  to  sleep,  with  his  mother 
watching  the  shadow  while  she  took  her  first 
lesson  in  gathering  and  binding  sheaves.  When 
he  woke,  the  grandfather  sent  his  whole  family, 
James  and  his  mother  included,  to  the  house 
for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

"  Hoots,  Isy,  my  dautie,"  he  said,  when  she 
wanted  to  continue  her  work,  "  would  ye  mak'  a 
slave-driver  o*  me,  and  bring  disgrace  upo'  the 
name  o'  father?" 

Then  at  once  she  obeyed,  and  went  with  her 
husband,  —  both  tired  indeed,  but  happier  than 
ever  in  their  lives  before. 


20 


305 


SALTED   WITH  FIRE 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

The  next  morning  James  was  in  the  field  with 
the  rest  long  before  the  sun  was  up.  Day  by 
day  he  grew  stronger  in  mind  and  in  body,  until 
at  length  he  was  not  only  quite  equal  to  the 
harvest-work,  but  capable  of  anything  required 
of  a  farm  servant. 

His  deliverance  from  the  slavery  of  Sunday 
prayers  and  sermons,  and  his  consequent  sense 
of  freedom  and  its  delight,  greatly  favoured  his 
growth  in  health  and  strength.  Before  the  win- 
ter came,  however,  he  had  begun  to  find  his 
heart  turning  towards  the  pulpit  with  a  desire 
after  utterance.  For,  almost  as  soon  as  his 
day's  work  ceased  to  exhaust  him,  he  had  be- 
gun to  take  up  the  study  of  the  recorded  say- 
ings and  doings  of  the  Lord  of  men,  eager  to 
verify  the  relation  in  which  he  stood  toward 
him,  and  through  him  toward  that  eternal  at- 
mosphere in  which  he  lived  and  moved  and  had 
his  being,  namely,  God  himself.  One  day  with 
a  sudden  questioning  hunger  he  rose  in  haste 
from  his  knees  to  turn  almost  trembling  to  his 
Greek  Testament,  in  order  to  find  out  whether 
306 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

the  words  of  the  Master,  "  If  any  man  will  do 
the  will  of  the  Father,"  meant  "  If  any  man  is 
willing  to  do  the  will  of  the  Father ;  "  and 
finding  that  indeed  they  did,  he  was  thence- 
for^vard  so  far  at  rest  as  to  be  able  to  go  on 
asking  and  hoping ;  nor  was  it  long  then  before 
he  began  to  feel  that  he  had  something  worth 
telling,  and  which  he  must  tell  to  every  man. 
Heartily  he  took  himself  to  prayer  for  that 
spirit  of  truth  which  the  same  Lord  had  prom- 
ised to  him  that  asked  for  it. 

He  talked  with  his  wife  about  what  he  had 
found;  he  talked  with  his  father  about  it;  he 
went  to  the  soutar  and  talked  with  him  about 
it. 

Now  the  soutar  had  for  many  years  made 
one  use  of  his  Sundays  by  which  he  saw  he 
could  now  be  of  service  to  James :  he  went  four 
miles  into  the  country  on  the  other  side  of 
Stonecross,  and  there  held  a  Sunday-school, 
at  the  last  farm  for  a  long  way  in  that  direction, 
beyond  which  lay  an  unproductive  region,  con- 
sisting mostly  of  peat-mosses,  and  lone  barren 
hills,  —  where  the  waters  above  the  firmament 
were  but  imperfectly  divided  from  the  waters 
below  the  firmament.  The  roots  of  the  hills 
coming  together  pretty  close,  the  waters  gath- 
ered and  made  marshy  places,  with  only  here 
and  there  patches  of  higher  ground  upon  which 
307 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

crops  could  be  raised.  Yet  there  were  many 
more  houses  in  it,  such  as  they  were,  than  could 
have  been  expected  from  the  appearance  of  the 
country.  In  one  spot,  indeed,  not  far  from  the 
farm  I  have  mentioned,  there  was  a  small,  thin 
hamlet.  A  long  way  from  church  or  parish- 
school,  and  without  any  to  minister  to  the  spir- 
itual wants  of  the  people  nearer  than  a  good 
many  miles,  it  was  a  rather  rough  and  ignorant 
place,  with  a  good  many  superstitions,  —  none 
of  them  in  their  nature  specially  mischievous, 
save  indeed  as  they  blotted  the  idea  of  the 
divine  care  and  government.  It  was  just  the 
country  for  bogie-baes  and  brownie-baes,  hoodies 
and  water-kelpies  to  linger  and  disport  them- 
selves long  after  they  had  elsewhere  disappeared. 

When,  therefore,  James  Blatherwick  came  to 
him  in  his  need  of  counsel,  the  soutar  proposed, 
without  giving  any  special  reason  for  it  at  the 
time,  that  he  should  go  with  him  next  Sunday 
afternoon  to  his  school  at  Bogiescratt.  James 
consented  with  pleasure,  and  the  soutar  proposed 
to  call  for  him  at  Stonecross  on  his  way. 

"  Mr.  MacLear,"  said  James,  as  they  walked 
along  the  rough  parish  road  together,  "  it  seems 
to  me  that  I  have  but  just  arrived  at  the  point  I 
ought  to  have  reached  before  ever  even  desiring 
to  address  my  fellows  upon  any  matter  of  reli- 
gion. Perhaps  I  knew  some  little  things  about 
308 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

religion,  but  certainly  I  knew  nothing  of  relig- 
ion ;  least  of  all,  had  I  made  any  discovery  for 
myself  in  religion  —  before  which  no  man  can 
understand  or  know  anything  whatever  about  it. 
I  fear  lest  even  now  I  may  be  presuming,  but 
I  do  seem  now  to  know  a  little  of  the  relation 
between  a  man  and  the  God  who  made  him ; 
and  with  the  sense  of  that,  as  I  was  saying  to 
you  last  Friday  night,  there  has  arisen  in  my 
mind  the  desire  to  communicate  to  my  fellow- 
men  something  of  what  I  have  learned.  One 
thing  I  hope  at  least,  that  should  I  be  entangled 
afresh  in  any  desire  to  show-off,  I  shall  see  the 
danger,  and  have  the  grace  to  pull  up.  You 
will  tell  me  I  must  not  be  too  sure ;  I  will  try 
not  to  be,  but  to  doubt  myself,  and  so  keep  on 
my  guard.  One  thing  I  have  resolved  upon  — 
that,  if  ever  I  preach  again,  I  will  never  again 
write  a  sermon.  I  know  I  shall  make  many 
mistakes,  and  do  the  thing  very  badly;  but 
failure  itself  will  help  to  keep  me  from  conceit 
—  indeed,  I  hope,  from  thinking  of  myself  at  all, 
and  make  me  leave  myself  in  God's  hands,  will- 
ing to  fail  if  he  pleases.  Don't  you  think,  Mr. 
MacLear,  we  may  look  to  God  now  for  what  we 
ought  to  say,  as  confidently  as  if,  like  the  early 
Christians,  we  stood  before  the  magistrates  to 
explain  ourselves?  " 

"  Indeed   I   do,    Mr.   James,"    answered   the 
309 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

soutar.  "  Hide  yourself  in  God,  and  out  of 
that  secret  place  speak  —  and  fear  nothing. 
Never  think  of  speaking  down  to  your  congre- 
gation. Look  them  in  the  eyes,  and  say  what 
at  the  moment  you  think  and  feel ;  and  do  not 
hesitate  to  give  them  the  best  you  have." 

When  is  a  man  most  likely  to  reach  the 
thought  and  feeling  of  others,  if  not  when  he 
speaks  the  thing  that  is  at  the  moment  rising 
warm  within  him,  direct  from  the  heart  of  him 
in  whom  we  live  and  move  and  have  our  being? 
Have  no  anxiety  about  results.  I  have  often 
found  my  utterance  freest  when  I  felt  so  far  from 
well  that  I  must  leave  all  to  him,  and  take  no 
thought  about  Jiow  I  was  doing  my  work.  Then 
I  am  able  to  say,  "  Lord,  thou  seest  my  con- 
dition ;  look  to  my  work,  I  pray  thee."  When 
the  Lord  gives  you  freedom  and  joy,  use  them 
in  love  and  confidence.  Be  willing  to  fail  in 
what  you  have  set  before  you,  and  let  the  Lord 
work  his  own  success  —  his  acceptable  and 
perfect  will.  Even  when  Moses  presumptuously 
strikes  the  rock  in  his  own  name,  it  does  not 
always  refuse  its  precious  store;  one  may  be 
there  perishing  of  thirst,  for  whose  sake  it  must 
yield  the  water  of  life. 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  sir !     I  think  I  un- 
derstand,"   replied   James.     "  If  ever   I    speak 
again,  I  should  like  to  begin  in  your  school !  " 
31Q 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  Ye  sail  —  this  vera  nicht,  gien  ye  like," 
replied  the  soutar.  "  I  think  ye  hae  something 
e'en  noo  upo'  yer  min'  'at  ye  would  like  to  say  to 
them  —  but  we  '11  see  hoo  ye  feel  aboot  that 
when  I  hae  spoken  a  word  to  them  first !  " 

"  When  you  have  said  what  you  want  to  say, 
Mr.  MacLear,  then  give  me  a  look;  and  if  I 
have  anything  I  want  to  say,  I  will  answer  your 
sign.  Then  you  can  introduce  me,  saying  of 
me  what  you  will.  Only,  do  not  spare  me; 
use  me  after  your  judgment." 

The  soutar  held  out  his  hand  to  his  disciple, 
and  they  finished  their  journey  in  silence. 

When  they  reached  the  farmhouse,  the  small 
assembly  was  nearly  complete.  It  was  mostly 
of  farm-labourers,  but  a  few  worked  in  a  small 
quarry,  where  serpentine  lay  below  the  peat, 
and  in  this  serpentine  occurred  veins  of  soap- 
stone,  occasionally  of  such  a  thickness  as  to  be 
itself  the  object  of  the  quarrier ;  it  was  of  service 
in  the  making  of  porcelain,  and  for  other  uses 
small  quantities  of  it  were  in  request. 

When  the  .soutar  began,  James  was  a  little 
shocked  to  hear  him  speak  in  the  country-dia- 
lect which  was  his  mother-tongue  and  that  of 
his  ordinary  conversation ;  but  soon  the  sense 
of  its  unsuitableness  vanished,  and  he  felt  that 
the  vernacular  gave  him  additional  power  of 
expression,  and  with  it  of  persuasion. 

3TI 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  My  frien's,  I  was  jist  thinkin',  as  I  cam' 
ower  the  hill,"  he  began,  "  hooness  we  war  a' 
made  wi'  differin'  pooers  —  some  o'  's  able  to  do 
ae  thing  best,  and  some  anither;  and  that  led 
me  to  remark,  that  it  was  the  same  wi'  the  warl 
we  live  in  —  some  pairts  o'  't  fit  for  growin'  aits, 
and  some  bere,  and  some  wheat,  or  pitatas ;  and 
hoo  ilk  varyin'  bit  had  to  be  put  to  its  ain  richt 
use.  We  a'  ken  what  a  lot  o'  uses  the  bonny 
marble  can  be  put  till ;  but  it  wouldna  do  weel 
for  biggin'  hooses,  specially  gien  there  was  mony 
streaks  o'  saipstane  intill  't.  Still  it's  no  'at  the 
saipstane  itsel  's  o'  nae  use,  for  ye  ken  there 's  a 
heap  o'  uses  it  can  be  put  till.  For  ae  thing,  the 
tailor  tak's  a  bit  o'  't  to  mark  whaur  he  's  to  sen' 
the  shears  alang  the  claith ;  and  again  they 
mix  't  wi'  the  clay,  for  the  finer  kin's  o'  crockery. 
But  upon  the  ither  han'  there 's  ae  thing  it 's 
used  for  by  some,  'at  canna  be  considered  a 
richt  use ;  there 's  ae  wild  tribe  at  least  in 
America  that  eat  a  heap  o'  't  —  and  that 's  a 
thing  I  cannot  un'erstan' ;  for  it  does  them  no 
guid  at  a',  'cept  it  be  jist  to  fill  in  the  toom 
places  i'  their  stammacks,  puir  reid  craturs,  and 
haud  their  ribs  ohn  stucken  thegither  — and 
maybe  that's  what  they  dee  't  for!  Eh,  but 
they  maun  be  sair  hungert  afore  they  tak'  till  't ! 
But  they  're  only  savage  fowk,  I  'm  thinkin',  that 
hae  hardly  begun  to  be  men  ava' ! 
31a 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"  Noo  ye  see  what  I'm  drivin'  at?  It's  this 
—  that  things  should  aye  be  put  to  their  richt 
uses !  But  there  are  guid  uses  and  better  uses, 
and  things  canna  ajyc  be  putten  to  their  best 
uses ;  only,  whaur  they  can,  it 's  a  shame  to  put 
them  to  ony  ither  than  their  best.  Noo,  what 's 
the  best  use  o'  a  man?  What's  a  man  made  for? 
The  carritchis  (j:atec]iisni)  says,  to  glorify  God. 
And  hoo  is  he  to  do  that?  Jist  by  doin'  the 
wull  o'  him  that  sent  him.  For  the  ae  perfec' 
man  said  he  was  born  intill  the  warl  for  that  ae 
special  purpose,  to  do  the  wull  o'  him  that  sent 
him.  A  man  's  for  a  heap  o'  uses,  but  that  ae 
use  covers  them  a'.  Whan  he  's  doin'  the  wull 
o'  God  he  's  doin'  just  a'thing.  Still  there  are 
varhious  w'ys  in  which  a  man  can  be  doin'  the 
wull  o'  his  Father  in  heaven,  and  the  great  thing 
for  ilk  ane  is  to  fin'  oot  the  best  w'y  lie  can  do 
that  wull. 

"  Noo  here  's  a  man  sitting  aside  me  that  I 
want  to  help  set  to  the  best  use  he  's  fit  for  — 
and  that  is  to  tell  ither  fowk  what  he  kens  aboot 
the  God  that  made  him  and  them,  and  to  stir 
them  up  to  do  what  he  would  hae  them  do. 
The  fac'  is,  that  the  man  was  ance  a  minister  o' 
the  Kirk  o'  Scotlan'.  But  when  he  was  a  yoong 
man  he  fell  intill  a  great  faut  —  a  yoong  man's 
faut  —  I  'm  no  gaein'  to  excuse  't  —  dinna  think 
it !  Only  I  chairge  ye,  be  ceevil  till  him  i'  yer 
313 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

vera  thouchts,  rememberin'  hoo  mony  things  ye 
hae  dune  yersel's  that  ye  hae  to  be  ashamit  o', 
though  it  may  be  they  hae  never  come  to  the 
Hcht;  for,  be  sure  o'  this,  he's  repentit  richt 
sair.  Like  the  prodigal,  he  grew  that  ashamit 
o'  what  he  had  dune,  that  he  gied  up  his  kirk, 
and  gaed  hame  to  the  day's  darg  upo'  his  father's 
ferm.  And  that's  what  he  's  at  the  noo,  thof  he 
be  a  scholar,  and  that  a  ripe  ane.  And  by  his 
repentance  he  's  learnt  a  heap  that  he  didna 
ken  afore,  and  that  he  couldna  hae  learnt  ony 
ither  w'y  than  by  turnin'  wi'  shame  frae  the  path 
o'  the  transgressor.  I  hae  broucht  him  wi'  me 
this  day,  sirs,  to  tell  ye  something  —  he  hasna 
said  to  me  what  —  that  the  Lord  in  his  mercy 
has  tellt  him.  I  '11  say  nae  mair  —  Mr.  Blather- 
wick,  wull  ye  please  tell 's  what  the  Lord  has 
putten  it  intill  yer  min'  to  say." 

The  soutar  sat  down ;  and  James  got  up, 
white  and  trembling.  For  a  moment  or  t\vo  he 
was  unable  to  speak,  but  overcoming  his  emo- 
tion, fell  at  once,  forgetful  of  his  petty  repug- 
nance to  the  vernacular,  into  the  old  Scots 
tongue,  and  said,  — 

"  My  frien's,  I  hae  little  richt  to  stan'  up  afore 
ye  and  say  onything;  for  as  some  o'  ye  ken,  if 
no  afore,  at  least  noo  frae  what  my  frien'  the 
soutar  has  just  been  tellin'  ye,  I  was  a  minister 
o'  the  kirk,  but  ance  in  my  life  had  behaved  sae 
314 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

ill,  that,  whan  I  cam'  to  mysel',  I  thoucht  it  my 
duty  to  gie  up  my  office  therein,  that  anithcr 
micht  tak'  my  bishoprick,  as  was  said  o'  Judas 
the  traitor.  But  noo  I  seem  to  hae  gotten  mair 
licht,  and  to  ken  some  things  I  didna  ken  afore ; 
sae,  turnin'  my  back  upo'  my  past  sin,  and  be- 
lievin'  God  has  forgi'en  me,  and  is  willin'  I  should 
set  my  han'  to  his  pleuch  ance  mair,  I  hae 
thoucht  to  begin  here  again  in  a  quiet  heumble 
fashion,  tellin'  ye  something  o' what  I  hae  begun, 
i'  the  mercy  o'  God,  to  un'erstan'  a  wee  for 
mysel'.  Sae  noo,  gien  ye  '11  turn,  them  o'  ye 
that  has  broucht  yer  buiks  wi'  ye,  to  the  seventh 
chapter  o'  John's  gospel,  and  the  seventeenth 
verse,  ye  '11  read  wi'  me  what  the  Lord  says 
there  to  the  fowk  o'  Jerusalim :  Gien  07iy  man 
be  W2illin'  to  do  His  wiill,  he  'II  ken  whetJier  what 
I  tell  him  comes  frae  God,  or  whether  I  say  it 
only  oot  d  my  ain  held.  Luik  at  it  for  yersel's, 
for  that's  what  it  says  i'  the  Greek,  which  is 
plainer  than  the  English  to  them  that  un'erstan' 
the  auld  Greek  tongue :  '  Gien  onybody  be 
wullhi'  to  dee  the  wull  o'  God,  he  '11  ken 
whether  what  I  say  comes  frae  God,  or  I  say 
't  o'  mysel'." 

From  that  he  went  on  to  say  that,  if  they  kept 

trusting  in  God,  and  doing  what  Jesus  told  them, 

any  mistake  they  made  would  only  help  them  to 

understand  better  what  he  would  have  them  do. 

315 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

The  Lord  gave  them  no  promise,  he  said,  of 
knowing  what  this  man  or  that  man  ought  to 
do  ;  but  only  of  knowing  what  the  man  himself 
ought  to  do.  And  he  illustrated  this  by  the 
rebuke  the  Lord  gave  Peter  when,  leaving  en- 
quiry into  the  will  of  God  that  he  might  do  it, 
he  made  enquiry  into  the  decree  of  God  con- 
cerning his  friend,  that  he  might  know  it;  seek- 
ing wherewithal,  not  to  prophesy,  but  to  foretell. 
Then  he  showed  them  the  difference  between 
the  Greek  and  the  modern  English  meaning  of 
the  word  pivphesy. 

The  congregation  seemed  to  hang  upon  his 
words,  and  when  they  were  going  away  they 
thanked  him  heartily  for  thus  talking  to  them. 

That  night,  as  James  and  the  soutar  went 
home  together,  they  were  overtaken  by  an  early 
snowstorm,  lost  their  way,  and  were  in  danger, 
no  small  one,  of  having  to  pass  the  night  on  the 
moor.  But  the  farmer's  wife,  in  whose  house 
they  had  assembled,  had,  as  they  were  taking 
their  leave,  made  the  soutar  a  present  of  some 
onions  to  plant,  of  a  sort  for  which  her  garden 
was  famous :  exhausted  tn  conflict  with  the 
freezing  blast,  they  had  lain  down,  apparently 
to  perish  before  the  morning,  when  the  soutar 
bethought  himself  of  the  onions;  and,  obeying 
their  nearest  necessity,  they  ate  instead  of  keep- 
ing them  to  plant;  with  the  result  that  they 
316 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

were  so  refreshed,  and  so  heartened  to  battle 
with  the  wind  and  snow,  that  at  last  they  got 
home  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  weary 
and  nigh  frozen. 

All  through  that  winter,  James  accompanied 
the  soutar  to  his  Sunday-school,  sometimes  on 
his  father's  old  gig-horse,  and  oftener  on  foot. 
Occasionally  his  father  would  go  also,  and  then 
the  men  at  Stonecross  began  to  go,  with  the 
cottar  and  his  wife ;  and  the  little  company 
gradually  increased  to  about  thirty  men  and 
women,  and  half  as  many  children.  In  general 
the  soutar  gave  a  short  address,  but  he  always 
made  "the  minister"  speak;  and  thus  James 
Blatherwick,  while  encountering  many  hidden 
experiences,  went  through  his  apprenticeship  to 
extempore  preaching,  and,  hardly  knowing  how, 
grew  capable  at  length  of  following  in  his  own 
mind  a  train  of  thought,  all  the  better  that,  as  it 
rose,  it  found  utterance,  and  was  helped  out  by 
the  sight  of  the  eager  faces  of  his  humble  friends 
fixed  upon  him,  while  he  spoke,  as  they  eagerly 
drank  in,  sometimes  even  anticipated,  the  things 
he  was  saying.  He  seemed  to  himself  almost  at 
times  to  see  the  thoughts  taking  reality  and  form 
in  their  listening  minds,  and  accompanying  him 
whither  he  led  them  :  the  stream  of  his  thought, 
as  it  disappeared  from  his  consciousness  and 
memory,  settled  in  the  minds  of  those  who  heard 
317 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

him,  like  seed  cast  on  open  soil.  Some  of 
the  seed  grew  up  resolutions,  and  brought  forth 
fruit.  And  all  the  road,  as  the  two  friends 
returned,  sometimes  in  moonlight,  sometimes  in 
darkness  and  rain,  sometimes  in  wind  and  snow, 
they  had  such  things  to  think  of  and  talk  about, 
that  the  way  never  seemed  long.  Thus  dwindled 
by  degrees  Blatherwick's  self-reflection  and  self- 
seeking,  and,  growing  divinely  conscious,  he  grew 
at  the  same  time  divinely  forgetful. 

Once,  on  such  an  occasion,  as  his  wife  was 
helping  him  off  with  his  wet  boots,  he  said  to 
her,  — 

"  To  think,  Isy,  that  here  am  I,  a  dull,  selfish 
creature,  always  wanting  for  myself  knowledge 
or  influence,  grown  able  to  feel  in  my  heart  all 
the  way  home,  that  I  took  every  step,  one  after 
the  other,  only  by  the  strength  o'  God  in  me, 
carin'  for  me  as  my  father !  Ken  ye  what  I  'm 
tryin'  to  say,  Isy,  my  dear?  " 

"  I  canna  be  a'thegither  certain  that  I  do,  but 
I  '11  keep  thinkin'  aboot  it,  and  maybe  I  '11  come 
till 't,"  answered  his  wife. 

"  I  can  desire  no  more,"  answered  James,  "  for 
until  the  Lord  lat  ye  see  a  thing,  hoo  can  you  or 
I  or  onybody  see  for  oorsel's  the  thing  that  he 
maun  see  first.  And  what  is  there  for  us  to 
desire,  but  to  see  things  as  God  sees  them,  and 
would  hae  us  see  them?  I  used  to  think  the 
31S 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

soutar  a  puir  fule  body  whan  he  was  sayin'  the 
vera  things  I  'm  tryin'  to  say  noo.  I  saw  nae 
mair  what  he  was  efter  than  that  puir  collie  there 
at  my  feet  —  maybe  no  half  sae  muckle,  for  wha 
can  tell  what  he  mayna  be  thinkin',  wi'  that  far- 
awa'  luik  o'  his  !  " 

"  Div  ye  think,  James,  we'll  ever  be  able  to 
see  inside  them  doggies,  and  ken  what  they  're 
thinkin'?  " 

"  I  wouldna  won'er  at  onything  we  may  come 
to  see,  for  Paul  says,  '  A'  things  are  yours,  and 
ye  are  Christ's,  and  Christ  is  God's.'  Wha  can 
tell  but  the  vera  herts  o'  the  doggies  may  lie 
bare  and  open  till  oor  hearts,  as  to  the  hert  o' 
Him  wi'  whom  they  and  we  hae  to  do.  Eh,  but 
the  thouchts  o'  a  doggie  maun  be  a  won'erfu' 
sicht!  And  syne  to  think  o'  the  thouchts  o' 
Christ  aboot  that  doggie  !  We  '11  ken  them,  I 
daurna  weel  doobt,  some  day  !  I  'm  surer  aboot 
that  nor  aboot  the  thouchts  o'  the  doggie  himsel' !  " 

Another  Sunday  night,  having  come  home 
through  a  terrible  storm  of  thunder  and  Hght- 
ning,  he  said  to  Isy,  — 

"  I  hae  been  feelin',  a'  the  w'y  hame,  as  gien, 
afore  lang,  I  micht  hae  to  gie  a  wider  testimony. 
The  apostles  and  the  first  Christians,  ye  see,  had 
to  beir  testimony  to  the  fac'  that  the  man  that 
was  hangt  up  and  dee'd  upo'  the  cross,  the 
same  was  up  again  oot  o'  the  grave  and  gangin' 
319 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

aboot  the  warl ;  noo  I  canna  beir  testimony  to 
that,  for  I  wasna  at  that  time  waukit  up  i'  the 
min'  o'  my  Maker;  but  I  micht  wcel  be  called 
upon  to  beir  testimony  to  the  fac'  that  whaur 
ance  he  lay  deid  and  beeried,  there  he  was 
come  alive  at  last  —  that  is,  i'  the  sepulchre  o' 
my  hert.  For  I  hae  seen  him  noo,  and  ken  him 
noo  —  the  houp  o'  glory  in  my  hert  and  my  life. 
Whatever  he  said  ance,  I  believe  for  ever." 

The  talks  James  Blathervvick  and  the  soutar 
had  together  were  now,  according  to  Mr.  Rob- 
ertson, even  wonderful.  But  it  was  chiefly  the 
soutar  that  spoke,  while  James  sat  and  listened 
in  silence.  On  one  occasion,  however,  James 
spoke  out  freely,  and  indeed  eloquently.  The 
soutar,  accompanying  Mr.  Robertson  to  his  inn 
that  night,  the  latter  said  to  him  ere  they 
separated,  — 

"  Do  you  see  any  reason,  Mr.  MacLear,  why 
this  man  should  not  resume  his  pastoral  office?  " 

"  One  thing,  at  least,  I  am  sure  of,"  answered 
the  soutar,  "  that  he  is  far  fitter  for  it  than  ever 
he  was  before." 

This,  Mr.  Robertson  repeated  to  James  the 
next  day,  adding,  — 

"  And  I  am  certain  everyone  who  knows  you 
will  vote  the  restoration  of  your  licence." 

"  I  must  speak  to  Isy  about  it,"  answered 
James  with  simplicity. 

320 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

"That  is  quite  right,  of  course,"  rejoined  Mr. 
Robertson ;  "  you  know  I  tell  my  wife  every- 
thing, and  am  a  great  insister  that  all  men 
should ;  but  I  do  not  suppose  you  doubt  what 
she  will  say." 

"  Will  not  some  public  recognition  of  my 
reinstatement  be  necessary?  "  asked  James. 

"  I  will  have  a  talk  with  some  of  the  leaders 
in  the  synod,  and  let  you  know  what  they  say," 
answered  Mr.  Robertson. 

"  Of  course  I  am  ready,"  returned  Blatherwick, 
"  to  make  any  public  confession  judged  neces- 
sary or  desirable  ;  but  that  will  involve  my  wife. 
I  know  perfectly  what  she  will  be  ready  for,  but 
not  the  less  is  it  my  part  to  lay  the  thing  before 
her." 

"  Of  one  thing  I  think  you  may  be  sure  :  that, 
with  our  present  moderator,  your  case  will 
be  handled  with  more  than  delicacy  —  with 
tenderness." 

"I  must  not  doubt  it;  but  for  my  part  I 
would  deprecate  indulgence.  Still,  I  must 
have  a  talk  with  my  wife  about  it !  She  is  sure 
to  know  best." 

"My  advice  is  to  leave  it  all  in  the  hands  of 
the  moderator.  We  have  no  right  to  choose 
our  own  penalties  !  " 

James  went  home  and  opened  the  whole  ques- 
tion to  his  wife, 

21  321 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

Instead  of  looking  frightened,  or  even  anxious, 
Isy  laid  little  Peter  in  his  cradle,  threw  her  arms 
round  James's  neck,  and  cried, — 

"  Thank  God,  my  husband,  that  you  have 
come  to  this !  Don't  think  to  leave  me  out,  I 
beg  of  you.  I  am  more  than  ready  to  accept 
my  shame.  I  have  always  said  I  was  more  to 
blame  than  you  !  It  was  me  that  should  have 
known  better !  " 

"  You  trusted  me,  and  I  was  unworthy  of  your 
confidence,  But  they  shall  know  what  you  say. 
Had  ever  man  a  wife  to  be  so  proud  of  as  I  of 
you?  " 

Mr.  Robertson  brought  the  matter  before  the 
synod  ;  but  neither  James  nor  Isy  heard  anything 
more  of  it,  except  what  was  conveyed  in  the  cor- 
dial announcement  of  the  renewal  of  James's 
licence,  which  was  soon  followed  by  the  offer  of 
a  church  in  the  poorest  and  most  populous  par- 
ish north  of  the  Tweed. 

"  See  the  loving  power  at  the  heart  of  things, 
Isy,"  said  James  to  his  wife;  "out  of  evil  He 
has  brought  good,  the  best  good,  and  nothing 
but  good ;  a  good  ripened  through  my  sin  and 
selfishness  and  greed  —  for  what  else  is  ambi- 
tion but  greed?  —  bringing  upon  you  as  well  as 
me  disgrace  and  suffering.  The  evil  in  me  had 
to  come  out  and  show  itself  before  it  could  be 
cleared  away.  Some  people,  nothing  but  an 
322 


SALTED   WITH    FIRE 

earthquake  in  their  httle  world  will  wake  from 
their  dead  sleep.  I  was  one  of  such.  God  in 
his  mercy  brought  on  the  earthquake,  and  it 
woke  me  and  saved  me  from  death.  Ignorant 
creatures  who  do  not  yet  understand  anything 
go  about  asking  why  God  permits  evil.  We 
know  why !  It  may  be  he  could  with  a  word 
cause  evil  to  cease  —  but  would  that  be  to 
create  good  ?  It  might  make  us  good  like  oxen 
or  harmless  sheep,  but  would  that  be  a  good- 
ness worthy  of  him  who  was  made  in  the  image 
of  God?  If  a  man  ceased  to  be  capable  of  evil, 
he  must  cease  to  be  a  man.  What  would  the 
goodness  be  that  could  not  help  being  good  — 
that  had  no  choice  in  the  matter,  but  must  be 
such  because  it  was  so  made?  God  chooses  to 
be  good,  else  he  would  not  be  God :  man  must 
choose  to  be  good,  else  he  cannot  be  the  son  of 
God.  Herein  we  see  the  grand  love  of  the 
Father  of  men  —  that  he  gives  them  a  part, 
and  that  a  part  necessary  as  his  own,  in  the 
making  of  themselves.  Thus,  and  thus  only, 
by  willing  the  good,  can  they  become  partakers 
of  the  divine  nature."  Satan  said,  "Ye  shall  be 
as  gods,  knowing  good  and  evil."  God  says, 
"  Ye  shall  be  as  gods,  knowing  good  and  evil, 
and  choosing  the  good."  For  the  sake  of  this, 
all  the  discipline  of  the  world  exists.  God  is 
teaching  us  to  know  good  and  evil  in  some  real 
323 


SALTED   WITH   FIRE 

degree  as  they  are  and  not  as  they  seem  to 
the  incomplete,  that  we  may  learn  to  choose  the 
good  and  refuse  the  evil.  He  would  make 
them  see  the  two  things,  good  and  evil,  in 
some  measure  as  they  were,  and  then  say 
whether  they  would  be  good  children  or  not. 
If  they  fail,  and  choose  the  evil,  he  takes  yet 
harder  measures.  If  at  last  it  should  prove 
possible  for  a  created  being  to  see  good  and 
evil  as  they  are,  and  choose  the  evil,  then,  and 
only  then,  there  would,  I  presume,  be  nothing 
left  for  God  but  to  set  his  foot  upon  him  and 
crush  him,  as  we  crush  a  noxious  insect.  But 
God  is  deeper  in  us  than  our  own  life,  yea,  is  the 
very  centre  and  cause  of  our  life ;  therefore  is 
the  Life  in  us  stronger  than  the  Death,  for 
the  creating  Good  is  stronger  than  the  created 
Evil. 


THE   END. 


324 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO— ^      202  Main  Library 


LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1  month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405 

1>«ar  loans  may  oe  recharged  Dy  bringing  the  books  to  the  Circulation  Desk 

Renewals  and  recharges  nnay  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  date 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


NOV  1  2  1984 


"^oRc^FEB^ngss 


NOV  06  19 ?S 


&(  i"rt-\ — rrr — — 


D£Cuo|93g 


riRCUi  &yu 


MAR  1 1  ' 


rv*' 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
FORM  NO.  DD6,  60m,  1/83  BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


®i 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


coataastst 


98439(3 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


